When the taxi let them off, they hurried inside. Although they both had a carry-on bag and she had printed out the boarding passes at home, they arrived too late. “We’ll have to catch the next flight. Damn.”
“Give me the boarding passes and just follow my lead.”
They got to security. “Has the flight left yet?”
“No, but it’s too late to board. Sorry.”
Dylan pulled out his ID. “Ask them to hold the plane, please.”
The guard checked the ID carefully and nodded. Since 9/11, all law officers were required to have the word POLICE on their ID, because that word was recognized in many countries. The security guard made a call.
“And the lady?”
Laurel already had her driver’s license out of her purse.
“A civilian who is traveling with me. Government business. Need to know basis.”
The guard stood taller, as if he were honored to be of assistance. “I understand. Are either of you carrying, sir?”
“No.” Dylan held out his arms. Laurel did the same. The guard did a thorough check.
“The plane is waiting, sir. Have a good flight.”
As they walked to the plane, Laurel said, “Was that kosher to ask them to hold the plane when we aren’t on government business?”
“I am. Protecting you is part of it. That’s why you wanted me along, to pull out my creds when needed, wasn’t it?”
Laurel had no answer to that. He was right.
Once they were aboard and seated, Laurel said quietly, “He asked if you are carrying? I assume he means a weapon. What if you’d said you were, or he’d have found one when he wanded you?”
“We’d have missed the plane. I can carry a weapon onboard, but I have to make reservations far enough ahead that I can meet privately with the captain and crew at least an hour before the flight. Lots of paperwork, too. So I don’t do it. But I can tell you there is a Federal Air Marshal—most civilians call them Sky Marshals—on board.”
“Really? How can you tell?”
“I know him. And, no, I won’t tell you which passenger he is, so don’t bother to ask. Just be glad he’s here.”
After they were airborne, Laurel looked at the receding San Diego skyline, and then sat back and closed her eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come. Her mind churned. Was this a waste of time? She looked at Dylan. He seemed to be deep in thought. She reached into her purse and took out a prescription bottle. She opened it, shook a pill into her palm, and swallowed it.
“You want some water?”
“I’m okay. Valium. I hate to fly. I always sleep on flights but I need to take the edge off.”
“Sweet dreams.” He took a paperback out of his jacket pocket while she closed her eyes.
It seemed as though she’d only just fallen asleep when she was awakened by someone talking to Dylan. She opened her eyes to see the flight attendant standing in the aisle.
“If you’ll come this way, the Captain would like a word with you, sir.”
Dylan rose and followed the woman. Laurel was curious, but when he returned a few minutes later, all he said by way of explanation was “Business.”
“Whatever.” She pulled her own paperback out of her purse and opened it.
“What are you reading?” He picked up his book.
“One Hundred Years of Solitude.”
“Yeah? Is it good?”
“So far. I’m about halfway through.”
“Glad to hear it. I just started it.” He showed her the cover. The title was Cien años de soledad.
“Oh, God. In Spanish? I knew it. Did you know Gabriel García Márquez was a Nobel laureate from Colombia?”
“That so? Colombia, huh?”
“Have you ever been there?”
“Have you?”
“You first.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t visit the home country of every author I read.”
“That’s not answering the question. If you are reading it in Spanish, it makes sense you might have visited there.”
“Only to you, I’m afraid. Now, why don’t you read your version and let me read mine because about now I could use at least a hundred minutes of solitude.” He began to read.
She turned toward the window and opened her own book. After a few minutes, she turned back to him. “I think I’ll take a vacation to Colombia soon. I’ll bet it’s beautiful there. I might go to several countries. Take six months and just tour South and Central America. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“I thought Philly was your idea of fun. Are you telling me this isn’t a vacation?” he said in mock indignation.
“Oh dear. I’m sorry if I misrepresented the situation. Now you’ll probably pout all the time we’re gone. Tsk tsk. Honestly, though, I don’t know why I haven’t done it before. Acapulco, Chichen Itza, Rio, the Galapagos Islands.”
“Okay, those would be interesting places to visit, but Colombia? Home of drug cartels?” And of your father.
“People do go there to vacation.”
“Good for them. Personally, I prefer Europe.” He went back to reading his novel.
Laurel tried to read too, but couldn’t keep her mind on her book. Unfortunately, she was entirely too aware of the man sitting next to her. She wondered if he was really reading, or if he, too, could feel the tension.
“You haven’t . . .”
He held up a finger for silence. “Wait till I finish this chapter.”
So he is reading. He doesn’t care if I’m here or not. Got it. She concentrated on the tops of fluffy clouds that floated by outside her window.
“Now, what were you saying?”
She turned to him. “You haven’t asked me why we’re going to Pennsylvania. I thought that’s the first thing you’d want to know.”
“I figure you’ll tell me eventually. Though, I am beginning to wonder what you’re waiting for.”
She took the newspaper article out of her purse and handed it to him.
He read it. “What’s this?”
“The reason we’re on the airplane. At my father’s funeral, a guy named Mike Branson gave it to me.”
“Branson? You know him?”
“No. I didn’t even know who he was until Mari told me. I forgot about it until I was going through my father’s things. I found this.” She handed him the other clipping.
Dylan frowned. “Odd.”
“That was my reaction. Why had Daddy kept it and why did Branson have it as well? I decided it deserved a further look after I talked to Branson.”
“What’s Branson’s interest?”
She explained what the reporter had told her about investigating cold cases. “So if you hadn’t agreed to go today, I might well have asked Mike along.”
“Which probably would have been a mistake, since Mike is a reporter and cops don’t much care for that breed of animal.”
“See? That’s why I asked you along. You’ll have more clout.”
“And here I thought it was my sparkling wit and personality.”
“Well, there is that.”
“What do you think you’ll find?”
Laurel pursed her lips. “I’m not sure. I hope he and Mr. Markham were friends and that’s the reason he kept the article.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“Unfortunately, no. Daddy worked for Chaber, and his job for the company was legitimate. But from all I’ve learned about him in the past couple of weeks . . . not that I want to think what I’m thinking, but the idea crossed my mind and I want to rule it out.”
“You’re thinking the murder was your father’s work.”
“Maybe that’s a stretch, but wouldn’t it enter your mind?”
“Probably, but even if it were true, what good does it do to find out for certain—assuming you even can?”
“Two things. For one, Chaber would be guilty of hiring a hit man—excuse me, an asset.”
“Hit man is probably the correct term in that case.”
“Oh, I get it. Euphemisms are only for government use. Anyway, at the very least, Chaber Pharma should be investigated.”
“Maybe they were.”
“I doubt that. Who would even make a connection?” She raised her hand to catch the flight attendant’s attention.
“The DEA, for one. I’m not saying they did, but they might have.”
The attendant stopped at their seats and gave a token smile. “Can I get you something?”
“Bottled water?”
“Certainly. Anything for you, sir?”
“I’ll have the same, thanks.”
He turned in his seat and studied her. “And the second thing?”
Laurel hesitated. “Oh. I did say two things. Sorry. The second should be obvious. If my father had anything to do with those deaths, I owe it to their families to make it up to them.”
“You can’t atone for your father. And how do you propose to make it up to them? With money?”
“You make it seem crass, and it is, but people sue for a lot less.”
“Forget it. You will open an even bigger can of worms than you’re already going to do when this plane lands.”
The attendant brought them each an icy bottle of water and glasses.
Laurel thought about what he’d said as she opened the water and took several large sips. Maybe he was right, but she was committed now. She drank half the bottle and capped the rest.
They sat in silence for several minutes. At last, Laurel said, “I should have told you all this before dragging you along. I’ll understand if you don’t want to get involved. I can get you on the next flight home.”
He just shook his head and picked up his book. Taking his cue, she read her own until the drone of the engines made her sleepy. She put the book aside and closed her eyes.
As she began to fall asleep, she relaxed, and her head drooped to one side. She was only vaguely aware of his strong arm going around her so he could support her. Feeling comfortable and protected, she slept deeply for the first time in days.
Chapter 20
Laurel put on her sunglasses as Dylan drove down the main drag. “Chaber, Pennsylvania. Company town. I’ve heard of them, but have never been to one.”
“I’ve seen a lot of them. This looks more upscale than most. Check the GPS. The police station has to be around here somewhere.”
Laurel did. “About three more blocks. On the left.”
Dylan parallel parked at a meter in front of the police station sandwiched between Randy’s Candies and a Starbucks. “This is your baby. I’m just along for the ride. If you need my creds, you’ve got ‘em. Otherwise, it’s all yours.”
“Thanks.” She opened the car door and stepped into humid heat. She briefly stretched to work out the kinks from sitting for hours, and then joined Dylan on the sidewalk, watching as he fed the parking meter.
Together, they entered the station. It was cool inside.
“I expected ceiling fans blowing hot air around,” Laurel whispered, removing her sunglasses and tucking them in her purse.
Dylan took off his glasses as well. “Too upscale for that. I imagine Chaber Pharma likes to keep its residents happy.”
“Even the criminals, apparently.”
A fit, fiftyish man walked toward them. His hair was just beginning to gray at the temples. He gave them a welcoming nod. “Ms. Avidon? Steve Carson.”
She handed him her business card. “Detective Carson. It’s nice to meet you. This is my colleague, Dylan Kraft.”
The two men shook hands. “Come into my office.”
They followed him into a room where he directed them to chairs in front of a mahogany desk. A laptop, phone, and several pens and scratch pads were all that were on the desk. Laurel had expected to see a stack of files then noted there were no file cabinets. In this electronic age, file cabinets are becoming obsolete. There wasn’t even a calendar. Who needed one these days?
“Would you like something to drink? No dented coffee pots with day-old dregs. We go next door.”
Laurel and Dylan declined.
“All right, then. Maybe you can tell me why you’re here.”
Laurel sat forward in her chair. “As I said on the phone, I’m interested in finding out what you know about a cold case.” She reached into her purse, pulled out the newspaper article she’d found in the hidden room, and handed it to Carson.
He gave it little more than a cursory glance. “What’s your interest in this case?”
“My father died recently and I found this in his effects. He worked for Chaber Pharmaceutical for many years, and I’m curious as to why he kept this. It was unlike him, so it must have meant something to him. I was hoping you could tell me more about the murders than is in that article.”
Carson regarded her with something akin to suspicion. “What’s to tell? The newspaper said everything.”
“You never caught the killer?”
“No.” Suddenly, he appeared more interested. “Do you think your father did it?”
“I have no reason to believe that. I’m thinking more along the lines that he and Mr. Markham might have been friends.”
“Possibly, but so what?”
Laurel winced. She hadn’t considered how it would seem to the cop to dredge all this up.
“Okay. I admit I have wondered about my father’s role. If he was friend or foe.”
Carson’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Really? Why would you even wonder about such a thing with regard to your own father? Where did you say you found that article?”
“In my father’s personal files. After he died.”
“Well, even if he was involved, there’s nothing we can do to him now. Dragging this back into the limelight would serve no purpose. I was a young cop on the beat when it happened. This town was in shock for months. Gun sales skyrocketed, people kept their kids close. But after a while, the citizens realized it was an isolated incident and relaxed their guard. To open old wounds now just to satisfy your curiosity is something I’m not willing to do. I suggest you go back to San Diego and forget about this.” He handed the article back to her.
“You seem awfully eager to let it go,” Dylan said.
Carson shook his head. “The Markhams had no family, no one who needs closure, as people like to say. What’s the point in pursuing this?”
Dylan put his flat badge and Photo ID on the desk. Laurel thought Carson eyed them as if they were poisonous snakes. Dylan said, “Back around that time, there were some nasty rumors about Chaber Pharmaceuticals. I know I don’t have to spell it out. The question is if the Markham murder was random or if Markham was silenced because he knew too much.”
Laurel was stunned. Was Dylan bluffing? If not, how would he know any of this? All of a sudden that date and expensive pen from Mel Chaber were making way too much sense. It was one thing to have a suspicion, but quite another to practically be told that Gerald Avidon was far worse than she could process. And to hear it from Dylan? She fought to keep her expression neutral.
Carson stood and walked to the window. He spent a few moments gazing out. At last, he came back to his desk and sat down, his shoulders slumped.
“This case haunts me. Ms. Avidon, when you called to say you wanted to see me about the case, I knew I shouldn’t agree, but I didn’t think you’d have anything. Maybe, though, I hoped you did. I’ve always thought it was a professional hit and, if so, we’d never find who did it. I was well aware of the rumors.” He glanced at Dylan. “But as I said, I was a beat cop and nobody would have listened to me. I’m sure my superior was in Chaber’s pocket.”
“Are you?” Dylan pressed.
“No. I assure you I’m not. But it is a fine line to walk in a town like this, as you might imagine. I don’t know what you hoped to find, but I have no idea who killed those poor people. For whatever reason, you seem to think it may have been your father, Ms. Avidon. I wish I could give you some closure.” His tone was wistful.
“I will sa
y two things, and then this meeting has to end. The first is to you, Agent Kraft. My gut tells me your organization should do an investigation of Chaber Pharma.” Laurel flashed an I-told-you-so glance at Dylan. “If the rumors were true and Markham was killed because of something he knew, killing him would have been all Chaber needed to continue doing something that might interest you.
“Ms. Avidon, I don’t know who killed the Markhams, but I do know the paper was wrong. They printed what they were told to print, but I happen to know the house was not burned to the ground in the initial fire. It was obliterated a few hours after the police and Chaber reps investigated. The bodies, though charred, were able to be identified.
“But here’s the kicker. Despite what the article says, the nursery wasn’t touched by the fire, and no baby was found there or anywhere else in the house.”
“Maybe that was misreported too. They might not even have had a child.”
“Oh, they did. Gina Markham used to dress that beautiful baby girl in frilly pink dresses and walk all over town, pushing the stroller. She doted on Delilah and loved to share her with her friends and neighbors. Which is why it was so strange the baby wasn’t at home that night.”
“Maybe they wanted a night alone and left the baby with grandma.”
“Nope. No relatives, remember? We canvassed the neighborhood and contacted their friends to find out if any of them happened to babysit Delilah that night, but it didn’t pan out. And that’s what haunts me most of all. That little girl simply vanished.”
Laurel didn’t say much as they drove to the motel. When Dylan pulled into a parking space, she got out of the car, retrieved her overnight bag and purse, and went to the door of her room. She opened it, but didn’t go in. The curtains were pulled and it was dark inside. A blast of cold air hit her.
Dylan followed her lead. His room was next door. As he opened his door, he flipped on the lights. “Cozy,” he said.
She glanced in his direction, and then turned the lights on in her room. “Yuck.” She saw him grin as he entered his room and closed the door.
She went inside. It was about as welcoming as the room in Brisbane. Cookie cutter rooms. Only the bedspread is a different color. Monkey-vomit green.
For The Love Of Laurel Page 14
