by Louise Clark
"Not such a big deal," Quinn said.
"No. More difficult than it once was, but doable if you have the money to spend." Billie was staring intently at the picture. Finally she put it on the table.
Quinn tapped the photo. "Once I found this picture, I took it down to the Strand Manor. They identified Crack Graham as the man staying with Brianne. That made us wonder whether Frank ever left the country."
"Whoa!" Billie said. "You've done a major leap of logic here. Take me through the steps."
"For the last three months Frank is supposed to have been in Mexico," Christy said as Quinn paused to drink his coffee. "He turned up there about a week after he disappeared."
Billie said, "We hadn't had any ransom demands, so I was starting to wonder if he'd had some kind of accident on his way home from the club."
Christy nodded. "I remember you telling me that I was going to have to consider that possibility. We were in the living room at the mansion. I was sitting on an antique settee that was worth thousands and was the most uncomfortable piece of furniture ever made. The trustees were all there. Samuel Macklin looked relieved that the Trust wasn't going to have to pay out any cash, and Edward Bidwell started talking about Noelle becoming the Jamieson heir. Gerry Fisher was sitting beside me, patting my hand, and Frank's Aunt Ellen didn't say or do a thing. She didn't protest. She didn't cry. She acted like she didn't care. She brought him up, for Pete's sake!"
Quinn put his hand over hers and squeezed it comfortingly. Christy looked over at him. She smiled shakily then looked at Patterson. "Sorry about that."
Billie nodded, her expression unreadable. Christy had a feeling that she'd put up a defensive barrier around herself, one that kept out the emotions of the victims she was trained to help. "Just after that meeting there was a report in the paper, a scoop, that Frank had been seen in Mexico. Then after that the media reported everything—the embezzlement, Frank taking Brianne with him to Mexico."
"Look, Mrs. Jamieson, I know it's hard to accept that your husband has been playing around on you, but—"
"Those stories were planted." As Quinn cut incisively into Billie Patterson's world-weary platitude the expression on his face was dangerous. "They all came from one source, a second-rate stringer who received a series of anonymous tips. Whoever sent them provided the information in the form of a press release. The reporter did a little basic research, then reworked the original material and sold it as his own."
The atmosphere at the table had cooled to frosty. Billie Patterson was sitting up straight in her seat, her hands closed tightly around the coffee mug, while Quinn slouched, apparently relaxed in his chair. Only his narrowed eyes and tight jaw indicated his feelings.
Christy intervened hastily. She needed Billie Patterson's help and support. "Quinn and I went to Mexico, to the Cancun area where the sightings of Frank were made, to find out whether he and Brianne were ever really there. We didn't find anyone who remembered seeing Frank. We did find people who saw Brianne and Crack Graham together."
"That doesn't prove Frank wasn't in the area." Patterson didn't sound or look particularly impressed.
"What do you need as proof, an engraved business card saying 'I was not in Mexico?" Quinn asked.
Patterson flushed. "Look, I'm a cop. We deal in facts, not speculation. Yeah, you've got proof Crack Graham was in Mexico. So what? Anyone can go to Mexico. They don't need a travel visa. The only reason they need a passport is because they're flying over U.S. air space."
"Crack has a record. He's done time. He couldn't get a passport of his own, and I believe he would face travel restrictions when crossing the border to another country." Quinn's voice was silky smooth.
Billie frowned at him. "Could be."
"And here's another point I can prove. Graham was on the plane seated beside Brianne when she returned to Canada. Frank was not on that plane. I have witnesses."
"Who?"
"The flight crew. Graham and Brianne had a fight on the plane, a very loud, very public argument in which the word 'con' was mentioned."
"So it's fair to assume that Crack Graham was out of the country and using someone else's passport to make him seem like an ordinary Canadian traveling for pleasure," Christy said.
Patterson traced a circle on the table with the base of her mug. "And you think that passport was Frank's."
"I do, but I don't know how Graham got hold of it."
Patterson stared at Christy for a minute, then she put her cup on the Formica table top with a decided thump, as if she'd just come to a decision. "I think I can guess. Do you remember the robbery at your home that happened just after Frank disappeared?"
Christy 's brow furrowed. "Vividly. Not much was taken, but the safe was opened. The trustees were furious. Gerry Fisher sacked the security guard on duty that night."
"Yeah. The safe was cleared out," Billie said. "You said at the time that Frank only kept a few papers and his passport there. No money or jewels, just his passport, and it was gone."
"That's true." Beside her Christy was aware of Quinn straightening. "I wondered about that at the time, then the reports started to come in that Frank had been seen abroad with Brianne. He would have needed his passport if he wanted to go to Europe or somewhere else in the world, so I assumed he'd been carrying it with him the night he walked out on me and that I was wrong about it being in the safe."
"So did I," Billie said. She took a pad and a pen from a coat pocket and started to make notes. "Jamieson disappearance. Passport very likely stolen. No evidence Jamieson ever left Vancouver. Evidence a mid-level drug dealer whose physical stats are similar to Frank Jamieson's was using his passport." She looked up. "So here's the big question. Why?"
Quinn leaned forward again. His expression, his body language was intense, a man passionate about the idea he was about to impart. "My guess is that someone offered Graham the opportunity for an all-expenses paid trip to Mexico as part of an elaborate hoax that includes manipulation of the media and a body double to put Frank Jamieson somewhere far away. That meant Graham had to be seen with Brianne Lymbourn from time to time, but otherwise he was free to do whatever he wanted. He chose to make contacts with the local drug crowd and set himself up as a new conduit for drugs coming into Vancouver. When he hopped on that plane a month ago, it was because he had his supply channels set up and now he needed to get back to Vancouver to put them into action."
"You're suggesting that he's now working on his own."
Quinn nodded. "I'll also bet that whoever arranged for him to go down to Mexico is mighty surprised that he's back home again."
"Possibly. I'll look into it, but I still need a reason why someone would want Graham to impersonate Frank Jamieson."
"I believe Frank is dead, Detective Patterson." Beside her Quinn tensed. Christy almost laughed. She'd bet that he was afraid she'd bring up the conversations she had with Stormy the Cat. "I think someone murdered him."
Billie stared at her. "That's a hell of a statement, Mrs. Jamieson. Who would want to kill your husband? And for what possible motive?" She waited a heartbeat, then, when Christy didn't reply added, "We don't even have a body to prove your allegation."
"Do we need one?" Quinn said impatiently.
Patterson slid Quinn a hard look that spoke volumes. Quinn raised a brow, his expression critical. With the two of them shooting daggers at each other, Christy ruthlessly dragged the discussion back to the basics. "I think someone was stealing from Frank's trust fund. They had to make sure he disappeared forever to cover their tracks."
The waitress appeared again, holding up her coffee beaker. Patterson shook her head. She snapped her notebook closed as the waitress moved away. "All of this—someone other than Frank Jamieson using his ID, his disappearance not being voluntary—hinges on a conspiracy to steal from the Jamieson Trust." She tapped the notebook with her pen, thinking. Quinn watched her intently. Christy fiddled with the handle of her coffee cup. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what exactly was g
oing on. She knew she had to find out.
"Okay. What we need to do is trace the financial dealings." Patterson pointed at Christy with her pen. "You're one of the recipients of the trust. With all the reports of embezzlement going on, you could ask for an audit and no one would be surprised."
Beside her, Christy sensed Quinn stiffening as Patterson laid out her plan. "I could, but I don't know any auditors."
"I do," Billie said. "I'll set up the auditor. You square it with the trustees."
"Wait a second," Quinn said. "Whoever embezzled from Frank's trust fund isn't going to like the idea of an audit. That could put Christy in danger."
Billie looked at Christy. She raised her brows in a question.
A little shakily, Christy said, "I need to know the truth, Quinn." She turned to Patterson. "I'll do it."
Chapter 15
"An audit? Christy, why on earth do you want an audit?" Gerry Fisher's voice was puzzled. It had been angry a few minutes ago when she first brought up the subject.
"Gerry, Frank is back in Vancouver. He hasn't come to visit me, he hasn't called, and he hasn't tried to see Noelle. I can't live like this. I need closure. I need to know what is going on." Christy's palms were sweating. She rubbed one hand on her pant leg, then the other. It was a good thing that Gerry, on the other end of the telephone line, couldn't see her face, because he'd know she was telling him some great big whopping lies.
"I can understand your distress, Christy," Gerry said. His tone was sympathetic. "Frank is a good man, but he tends to be careless of people's feelings. I'm sure he'll get in touch with you sooner or later."
Gerry had always been the most supportive of the trustees, but sometimes he treated her as if she was a dimwitted child who would do what she was told. Time to be assertive. Christy wiped those sweaty palms again and took a deep breath. "Gerry, I have my daughter to consider. She has questions about her father and why he never comes home anymore. Questions I can't answer. I think we both need to move on, to take Frank out of the center of our lives and put him on the edge where he clearly wants to be."
"I'm not sure I understand, Christy. What's this got to do with an audit?"
Christy drew a deep breath. Her heart was pounding. This was it. The BIG EXCUSE. She'd worked it out last night, while lying sleepless in bed. It was the reason for the audit, something that would make sense to Gerry Fisher. "I'm going to divorce Frank. He has clearly abandoned us. Once our marriage is over, I'll be able to provide a more stable environment for Noelle."
"Is there a man in your life? Is someone forcing you to do this?" Fisher asked.
"No!"
"Are you sure?" His voice had hardened.
Christy shivered. "I'm sure."
"What about that fellow with the writer father?"
Gerry sounded like a parent grilling his teenage daughter about her boyfriends. Like that teenage daughter, Christy couldn't help the uneasy guilt that colored her voice as she responded. "Gerry, I make my own decisions. I'm doing this because I want the best for Noelle—"
"The best for Noelle is to have her parents living together, with her."
"Agreed. I think you need to have this conversation with Frank, not me."
Gerry laughed at that. The laugh was an ironic chuckle rather than a great sidesplitting guffaw, almost as if he knew that finding Frank was impossible. "Frank will come to us when he's ready."
This gave Christy the opening to drag the conversation away from divorce and back to the audit. "In the meantime, he's got plenty of opportunity to embezzle what remains of the trust."
"He won't, Christy. We're on to him now. We've made sure he can't steal anything more."
Christy's hand was sweating again. She changed the phone from one ear to the other and wiped her palm. "Gerry, how much did Frank take? When and why? How long did it go on? I need to know these things. Every time the company makes an announcement or launches a new product, there's a story about Frank, the Ice Cream King's embezzling heir. Noelle is eight years old! It won't be long before she starts watching the TV news and reading headlines on her iPad. I have to be able to tell her what is truth and what is fabrication. For her sake, I have to find Frank."
"You're overreacting."
She almost snapped, Don't patronize me! but she didn't. She bit her tongue and held her peace, but she gave up on the reasonable discussion approach and headed directly into confrontation. "Gerry, funds have been stolen from the Jamieson Trust. That requires an audit. I don't care if it was my husband who did the stealing. I want an audit, and I'm sending in an auditor today. He should be on his way there now. Please instruct the staff to have the documents ready for him."
"This is incredibly inconvenient!"
"I wish there was another way, but the man I found is in my price range and he's willing to work over the weekend, to reduce the disruption to the office staff."
There was a fuming silence, then, "I can't convince you to change your mind?"
"No."
"All right. I'll set it up. What's the man's name?"
When Christy put down the phone she was trembling. She brewed a cup of coffee to steady herself. Holding the mug in both hands, she went out onto the porch. The sky was cloudless, the temperature cool. The last of Vancouver's summer sunshine before the autumn rains set in. She sat down on the steps and drank the coffee as if that ordinary pleasure could somehow take away the feeling that she'd just sent a snowball rolling down a mountain and started an avalanche.
Quinn's car drove slowly down the street, then turned into his carport. Christy drank more coffee and waited. He came out, saw her sitting on her step, and walked over.
His smile made her shiver again, but in a much nicer way than before.
He sat beside her. "So, did you do it?"
"Yes."
"How did Fisher take it?"
"He wasn't happy. He tried to persuade me to give up the idea, but in the end he caved." She drank more coffee, shook. Quinn put his arm around her shoulder, pulled her against him. It was meant to be a comforting gesture, and it was. It also sent Christy's pulse rate into the stratosphere.
"How did you convince him an audit was necessary?" he said. His breath ruffled her hair and tickled some very sensitive skin near her ear.
She said rather breathlessly, "I told him I wanted a divorce from Frank."
Quinn's arm tightened for a few seconds before he pulled away. "A divorce? Do you think that was wise?"
She shrugged. Even though it was just a hug, she missed the warmth of his body against hers, the strength of his arm holding her secure. "I figured it sounded realistic coming from a woman whose husband deserted her and ran off with another woman." She shot a quick look at him from underneath her lashes. He was a great looking guy, dressed now in jeans and a V-necked sweater that hugged his body and showed off his toned physique. He was frowning, his expression concerned. She smiled at him, but he didn't smile back. Her smile faded.
"Did he ask how long you've been planning this?"
"No. He just told me that Noelle deserved to have both of her parents raising her." She looked down at her feet. "It's a reasonable point of view, but so is the concept of a divorce. Frank was an addict. I wanted him to get treatment, but he wouldn't or couldn't. Frank and I bickered about his drug use for at least a year before he disappeared. I told him his habit was interfering with Noelle's life and mine, and that if he didn't stop, I'd leave him and take Noelle with me."
"But you didn't."
She shook her head, staring, not at Quinn, but at the house across the way. It was painted a different color from hers, but the trim was white, just as it was on her unit. "He kept promising he'd change, and I kept saying if he didn't I'd leave. Every time we argued a little part of my love for him died. Every time Noelle said, 'Where's Daddy tonight, Mommy?' I bled for her and cursed her father, until there was nothing left of what I'd felt when I married him. I suppose on the surface we seemed to have a stable marriage. That's why guys like Gerry
Fisher are surprised when I mention divorce."
"Living with a drug addict must be tough."
Quinn's matter-of-fact tone was a balm. She glanced over at him with a smile. Then her heart stopped at the intensity in his eyes.
Hey babe! What's up?
Christy dragged her gaze away from Quinn's intriguing expression to see Stormy the Cat emerge from some bushes and trot up the road. In his mouth was a mouse. A dead mouse. She hoped. "What have you done?"
Quinn frowned, clearly puzzled.
Christy shook her head and pointed. "Not you, Quinn, the cat. What's he got in his mouth?"
His brows snapped together in a frown. "Looks like Stormy is a mouser."
"Frank! Make Stormy take that poor creature back into the bushes and bury it. Immediately."
Stormy reached the bottom of her stairs. He spat out the mouse then sat down and licked each front paw in turn. The cat is pleased with himself. I don't think burying the mouse is in the cards, Chris.
"Ugh," Christy said. "Are you going to eat it?"
There was a mental sigh.
"I'll find some tuna," Christy said a little desperately. The cat raised his chin and fixed wide green eyes on her.
"The mention of tuna seems to have struck a chord," Quinn said.
"I think I'm being blackmailed," Christy said. She shook her finger at the cat. "No tuna unless you give that poor creature a proper burial."
The cat stared at her, unblinking.
He's reluctant. He wants the mouse and the tuna too. I'm working on him.
"The deal's off if the mouse isn't buried."
The cat scrutinized her for another minute, then picked up the mouse and trotted off down the road. When it disappeared into the shrubbery Quinn said, "That almost makes me believe the cat is communicating with you."
She smiled. "And if you believe the cat is communicating, will you also believe he's a reincarnation of Frank?"
Quinn's mouth quirked. "A hallucination, maybe."
Christy stood up, ready to fulfill her part of the bargain. "It sure would fit in with his lifestyle."
