Shattered Silence

by Marta Perry

  Rachel was left with a host of unanswered questions and a load of frustration. But at least Ian hadn’t turned against her. He’d be honest with her. Once she knew exactly what the situation was, she’d know how much to reveal.

  Her cell phone gave the ding that announced an incoming text, and Rachel nearly dropped it in her haste to unlock her phone. From Paul, at last.

  It’s not what you think. I just need time to decide what to do.

  Call me. I’m being questioned about you. What is this?

  She waited for more, but nothing appeared. Apparently Paul wasn’t ready to be honest with her.

  She frowned. Was she imagining it, or was there something a little panicky about Paul’s words? She wasn’t sure, and in the meantime she was left still confused and uncertain about what to tell that investigator.

  Rachel started the car, glanced into the rearview mirror and got a jolt right to her heart. Clint Mordan was in the vehicle right behind hers. Clint Mordan. He seemed to catch her look in the mirror, since he nodded slightly.

  A faint sense of admiration flickered. He’d found her remarkably fast, given how clever she thought they’d been. She’d underestimated him.

  Well, he could follow her home if he wanted, but that was all he could do. If he tried to push his way into her house, she’d call the police, no matter what the consequences.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CLINT EYED THE woman in the car ahead of him. He’d seen the movement of her head when she spotted him in her rearview mirror. Was she going to confront him here and now?

  No, apparently not. Rachel Hartline pulled out, signaling as if he were any other driver close behind her. If she was shaken that he was on her tail so quickly, she didn’t show it. She might still try to lose him, but he was ready for that...even grimly amused at the thought.

  But Rachel made no move to do any such thing, and after a couple of turns, it was clear she was headed home. Good. There were a few things they had to talk about.

  He’d checked in with Logan to learn that according to the watchman, Rachel had visited the offices last night. The security camera had caught her arrival and departure. It hadn’t shown anything of Paul Hartline, after he’d supposedly left for the day. If he’d been there, he must have left by an unmonitored hallway. And if Attwood had taken their advice, that wouldn’t have happened.

  When he’d heard about Rachel’s visit, the flicker of sympathy Clint had felt earlier was extinguished. Obviously she knew something, even if she hadn’t been involved. And he intended to know what that was.

  Clint frowned. Logan had questioned the night watchman, who’d insisted she’d been in the offices alone only for a few minutes. He could have been covering up for his own laxity in letting her in, but the film bore out what he said. Even so, if she knew how to get into the files, it would take only that long to make a copy.

  As for his insistence that she hadn’t been carrying anything but her handbag when she left...a flash drive wouldn’t take up much space at all. His jaw hardened. Yes, Rachel had a lot of explaining to do.

  They reached the quiet suburban street she lived on, and Rachel pulled into the driveway leading to the garage. Leaving her car outside, she got out quickly. She headed for the front door, a set of keys in her hand, and she pointedly didn’t glance his way.

  Ignoring him wasn’t going to help her now.

  Clint parked at the curb and followed her up the walk while assessing the house she and her ex-husband owned. A small Craftsman-style bungalow, it was undoubtedly one of the older houses on the block, but it was also in immaculate condition—freshly painted, the planters overflowing with mums in bright oranges and yellows. Nice place, making him wonder how she could afford it on a teacher’s salary. But maybe Hartline was still paying his share.

  He overtook Rachel before she reached the door. “We haven’t had our little talk yet,” he reminded her.

  She stiffened, then spun and flung an annoyed glance at him. “We can have as many little talks as you want, since you seem prepared to make a nuisance of yourself to get them. But I still can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  The last sentence came out loudly, and he glanced toward the next-door neighbor, who’d stopped clipping his hedge to stare at them. Best not to give the man any excuse to interfere.

  “Sorry,” he said, not meaning it. “But the situation is too serious to wait.”

  Rachel met his gaze briefly and then looked away. He thought he read resignation in the movement. “I suppose you’d better come in.”

  Success, it seemed. She fumbled with the key as if her fingers were cold, and he moved closer to her, just in case she had any idea of bolting inside and slamming the door in his face.

  She finally got the key to turn. “I didn’t—”

  The words cut off, and he followed her shocked stare toward the inside of the house. The door opened directly onto what had probably been a neat, pleasant room, judging by what he’d seen of the outside.

  Not now. It had been tossed, and by someone who hadn’t bothered trying to hide his actions.

  “No.” The anguish in the word was as acute as if she’d been attacked herself. She started in, but Clint grasped her arm.

  “Wait. Someone might still be there. Call the police first.” He suspected bringing the police in might not sit well with James Attwood, but Clint was still too much of a cop to do anything else.

  Rachel shook his hand off, her green eyes stormy. “You—you probably did this yourself.”

  “I didn’t.” He hung on to whatever patience he possessed. “If I had, would I be telling you to call the police?”

  The logic seemed to get through to her. A little of the anger left her face, leaving it strained. “No, I suppose not.” She paused, and he could almost see her weighing the options. “I’d better see if anything is missing. There have been a couple of recent break-ins in the area.”

  She turned away from him, obviously intending to do this on her own.

  “The police—” he began again, and he could almost hear his partner’s voice in his mind. People use our agency because they don’t want to call in the police.

  “I said I want to see if anything’s missing first. There’s no point in filing a report until I know that.”

  “Not by yourself,” he said, stepping past her into the living room. “It’s not safe. And if this has anything to do with the current situation...”

  He didn’t believe in coincidences. But if the search of Rachel’s house was connected with her husband’s disappearance, he’d better proceed carefully. Attwood wouldn’t be happy to have police in the middle of his problem, to say nothing of Clint’s partner’s reaction.

  He moved carefully across the living room, assessing the scene automatically. Who had been here? Someone from Attwood Industrial, impatient already with the pace of their investigation? Or someone else, like maybe the person who’d bought Paul Hartline’s loyalty?

  That presented a fresh set of complications on its own. If true, that must mean that the information hadn’t been turned over to the buyer yet. There may still be time to prevent that from happening, but only if he and Logan found the man first.

  He’d have to talk it over with Logan, but he had to deal with this now. “Stay there, please. Let me make sure no one is in here before you come in.”

  She hesitated, obviously reluctant, and then nodded.

  “How many rooms?”

  “Just the living room, kitchen, sunroom and the two bedrooms. No basement, and the attic is just an attic.”

  Nodding, he moved into the kitchen. Small, sunny, cheerful. An expression of Rachel’s personality? Someone had obviously had a thorough look around. He opened the closet door carefully, to find only a broom, a mop and cleaning supplies.

  Moving on, he went through each of the other rooms. The house was small and
compact, and there weren’t many places for an intruder to hide. He—whoever he was—had probably struck while Rachel was at school.

  Returning to the living room, he nodded at her. “It’s all clear. You can come in now.” He studied her face as she did, watching for anything out of the ordinary. But all he saw was stunned bewilderment.

  “The intruder jimmied the back door. Easy enough to do. Why don’t you have dead bolts on these doors?” He felt a spurt of irritation. Why did people neglect the most elementary precautions? She was an attractive young woman living alone, and she seemed oblivious of the simplest safety precautions.

  Rachel moved slowly to the middle of the room, lifting her hands in a helpless gesture and seeming to ignore his question. “Why would anyone do this? I can’t imagine there’s much here that would interest a thief.”

  Did she honestly not see the connection with her husband? Ex-husband, he corrected himself.

  “An ordinary thief would go straight for the electronics,” he pointed out. “They don’t seem to have been touched.”

  She picked up a ripped needlepoint cushion and hugged it against her, staring at the drawers pulled out of a lamp table, their contents strewn on the floor. “You think someone was looking for something.” She said it as a statement of fact, not an accusation.

  He had the feeling this violation of her home had knocked the stuffing out of Rachel, as well as her cushions. “What else? Someone is searching for whatever it was your husband has. Or for what he knows, but I’m guessing a specific object, judging by the search. Something small.”

  “Why here?” It was almost a cry. “I’d expect them to search Paul’s apartment. He hasn’t lived here in over a year.”

  “They probably did that first.” He made a mental note to check if Logan hadn’t done it already. “They didn’t find whatever it was, so they tried here. And you know what they’re looking for, don’t you?”

  Rachel seemed to try, and then fail, to summon up some indignation. “You know I was at the office yesterday, don’t you?”

  “We learned from the night watchman. And the security cameras. You must have realized we would.”

  She nodded. “Charlie. I talked with him for a bit.”

  Her reaction brought him back to being perplexed by her, and he didn’t like it. He wanted to put her in a simple category—innocent bystander or criminally involved, one or the other. But she didn’t fit.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this afternoon? You must have known we’d find out. It makes you look guilty.”

  Now she was back to looking at him with dislike. “I wasn’t too concerned with what impression I was making on you. I felt I should talk to someone from Attwood’s first. And I still haven’t had time to do that with you trailing me around.”

  “Sure you weren’t waiting to hear what your husband wanted you to do?”

  Her rounded jaw suddenly looked remarkably firm again. “Ex-husband. And if I wanted to talk to him, it was to find out what he knew about this.”

  “Didn’t he tell you when you saw him at the offices yesterday?” That was a shot in the dark, but he suspected it was true. That would explain a lot.

  “No.” She pressed her lips together on the word.

  At least she wasn’t denying that she’d seen him. That was progress, he supposed, but not enough.

  “Why were you there?” He shot the question, hoping to get an honest response, or at least some hint that she was lying.

  But Rachel looked more confused than anything else. She shook her head as if trying to clear it, and the long braid swayed against her back. For an instant he imagined that blond hair loose and curling down her back instead of confined in a braid, inviting a touch.

  He pulled his mind back to the business at hand. “Well?”

  She rubbed her temples again. “I had a paper for Paul to sign—the agreement to put this house on the market. I couldn’t move on it until he agreed, but... Anyway, I was supposed to be there earlier, but I was late in leaving the school, and the traffic was terrible.”

  He could believe that. Anyone who’d experienced Philadelphia traffic at rush hour would. “So what happened when you did get there?”

  “Charlie—the night watchman—let me in. He knows me, of course. He said he hadn’t seen Paul leave, so I wanted to see for myself.”

  She seemed to come to a halt, and he prompted her. “And what did you find?”

  “He wasn’t in his office,” she answered readily enough, maybe hoping he’d go away if she did. “But...” Rachel seemed to hit a stumbling block.

  “But what? Did you see him or not?”

  Rachel pressed both palms against her eyes. Trying to block out what she’d seen? Or just create a diversion?

  “Did you?” He took a step closer, trying to push her to answer.

  But that was the wrong move. Once again her anger flared. “I can’t do this. Not now. You’ll have to wait.”

  “Not a chance. You...”

  “Rachel? What’s going on here?” The intrusion of another person had both of them swinging toward the door.

  Ian Robinson. Clint had seen him last at Attwood Designs. Attwood’s right-hand man, so he’d understood. Clint’s eyes narrowed. What was he doing here?

  Robinson recognized him, of course. He nodded, his eyes skittering away from Clint.

  Rachel moved toward the other man. “Ian, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve had a break-in.” She gestured at the chaos.

  “I see.” Robinson gave him a speculative look, probably wondering if he’d been the breaker-in. Then he walked in and took Rachel’s arm, aligning himself with her.

  Clint didn’t bother trying to explain. Obviously he wasn’t going to get anywhere with the man here. He shoved down his irritation.

  “Here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything. Or if you hear from your ex-husband.” He held out his business card, but she made no move to take it. Finally he dropped it on the lamp table. “I’ll drop by in the morning, Ms. Hartline. We can finish our conversation then.”

  “I leave for school at seven thirty,” Rachel said. “Later...”

  He shook his head. “In the morning. I’ll be here at seven. Don’t stay here alone without taking some precautions. It’s not safe, and anyone could walk in that back door.”

  She didn’t respond. He wasn’t even sure what he said had registered. He eyed Robinson. Whatever their relationship, he’d have to hope the man would urge her to protect herself. She was not going to pay heed to anything he said. And why was it bugging him so much, anyway? Rachel Hartline wasn’t his responsibility. He walked out.

  Robinson closed the door decisively behind him, and Clint stared back at it for a moment. He’d give a lot to know what they were saying. Was Robinson’s interest in Rachel Hartline professional? Or personal?

  He glanced at the houses on either side. He wanted to talk to the neighbors, see if anyone had noticed anything, but not while Rachel could see him doing it. He’d find out in the morning if she’d notified the police. He scoured his memory for any contact he might have with the local force. There’d be some way of finding out the police response.

  He got in the car, turned the key and discovered a reluctance to leave. The truth was, he didn’t think Rachel was safe, and telling himself she wasn’t his responsibility didn’t seem to be doing a thing to lift the sudden protectiveness he felt.

  * * *

  RACHEL SUCKED IN a deep breath once Mordan was gone, feeling as if she hadn’t breathed the entire time he’d been there. “Thanks for...” Her voice wavered, and she stopped, clutching at her vanishing poise.

  Ian put his arm around her shoulders in a reassuring hug. “You’re upset. It’s no wonder with everything that’s going on. You should see people at the office. What was he saying to you?”

  She shrugged, taking a step away.
It was tempting to lean on Ian, but she had to be careful about confiding in anyone until she’d had an explanation from Paul. She kept telling herself she didn’t owe him loyalty, but despite everything, somewhere in Paul was the man she’d fallen in love with.

  Despite all his faults, he never wanted to hurt anyone. He just couldn’t stop believing that luck was going to turn his way and make everything all right—like one of her kindergarten children wishing on a star.

  “The same thing everyone is wondering about, I suppose. Where is Paul?”

  “If you know...” Ian stopped, looking worried and maybe apprehensive. Afraid of being involved? Probably. He had a job to consider and a family to support, after all.

  “I don’t,” she said firmly.

  Ian ran a hand over his fair hair and massaged his neck. Memory flickered—Paul used to tease him about looking like a male model with his clean-cut features, blond hair and blue eyes. Ian was certainly good-looking, and he used to be the center of attention with women. But that had been before he was married, of course.

  “You must have some idea what he’s up to,” he said at last. “You saw him last night, didn’t you?”

  “Just for a minute or two.” She picked her way forward with caution, not sure if it was necessary to tell him yet about the flash drive and Attwood’s computer. If there was some way Paul could manage to undo what he’d done, she wanted to give him that chance, at least. “He was supposed to sign the papers allowing me to move ahead with the sale of the house.”

  She looked around, another hurdle looming. The house would have to be restored to pristine condition before it went on the market. But since she hadn’t succeeded in getting Paul to sign on the dotted line, that didn’t really matter.

  “Will you really have to sell?” Ian’s voice went deep with sympathy. “I know what this place means to you.”

  She swallowed a rush of emotion. “I can’t afford it on my salary.” She shouldn’t have to say more. Ian was Paul’s best friend. If anyone else knew about Paul’s gambling problem, it was he.