Not Quite Perfect (Not Quite Series Book 5)

by Catherine Bybee

  “Years ago when Jason’s father and I met . . . I remember a bottle of Kentucky bourbon being involved . . . we both brought out our phones to show off the faces of our children. It didn’t occur to either of us to bring our client pool together. It took those young children to find lives of their own to bring the idea to fruition.” Gaylord slapped a meaty palm to Jason’s shoulder. “Your father would be proud of all of you.”

  Jason nodded his thanks.

  “Now I had some Texas beef flown in for this shindig, so eat up. Those of you who ordered the fish . . .” He shrugged. “Can’t help you there.”

  The applause was minimal and the waiters descended on the room with the first course.

  The tables where the Fairchilds and the Morrisons sat were spread among their guests. This was an event to make the customers feel special, not for the families to pull into themselves and ignore everyone else.

  Still, Glen had a hard time concentrating on anyone other than Mary.

  Their table was a mix of business executives and their wives or dates. It wasn’t uncommon for Glen’s table to house a bachelor or two, but nearly no one arrived at this event dateless. The bachelors seldom returned with the same date unless they were on the fast track to remove their bachelor status.

  Hugh Darnell sat beside his flavor of the year. He’d started dating women who had sleek black hair and olive skin and who wouldn’t be caught eating pizza in public. Glen never did understand the pencil thin look, but Hugh leaned that way. Glen didn’t bother putting to memory the name of Hugh’s date. He was talking with the Lowtons, the token married couple at the table, about his dot-com, which he’d created in the frenzy and managed to keep relevant and lucrative ever since. Hugh’s date looked bored with the conversation and started talking fashion with Irvin Murray’s date . . . someone who Glen had met one time before . . . but her name still evaded him.

  At one point during the meal Mary leaned close so only he could hear her. “How well do you know these people?”

  “The Lowtons did business with my father. Hugh’s been a client for half a dozen years now . . . new money, spends it, and isn’t afraid of sharing it either. He’s generous with his executive management. Charters planes for his team constantly.”

  “I would think most of the people in this room would do that.”

  Glen did a quick shake of his head. “Businessmen are the worst about sharing. Our celebrities and sports figures, they share and play often.”

  Mary reached for her wine and spoke over the rim of her glass. “What about Irvin?”

  “Don’t know him well. Trust fund,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “What about Delilah?”

  “Who?”

  Mary nudged her head to the opposite side of the table. “Hugh’s date.”

  “Never saw her before.”

  The waiters moved around the table removing salad plates and replacing them with the main course.

  “And Pnina?”

  Glen made the deduction that Pnina had to be Irvin’s date.

  “We’ve met, but I don’t know her.”

  “Hmm.”

  From what Glen could tell, Mary was deducting things inside her head with the little bit of information he’d given her. He wanted to quiz her on her observations but knew that would have to wait until those he wanted to talk about were more than a dinner plate away.

  “Is your therapist hat on?” he asked.

  “Is it ever off?”

  Yes, he wanted to tell her . . . when she was in bed.

  Dinner felt like it took forever to get through. Once the plates were cleared, Glen took the liberty to excuse both himself and Mary from the table with the ploy that he needed to introduce Mary to a few people. He did make a show of stopping at Jason’s table, where some of the guests were already up and mingling before the second half of the evening took place. The stop was brief before Glen pulled Mary to an outside patio.

  The cold instantly slapped him in the face.

  “What are we doing out here?” she asked, folding her arms around herself.

  Glen answered her question with his lips.

  Mary answered back.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dinner moved on to dancing and a raffle.

  Mary watched the rich and famous elbow rub. She’d been dragged from Glen’s side a couple of times by either Monica or her sister, Jessie. As Glen had told her, the Morrisons were some of the kindest people she’d ever met. And yes, Gaylord made it very clear that she’d best not even think to stay in a hotel that didn’t have his name on it unless she was in a remote part of the world where he didn’t have a hotel. “There’s always empty rooms, so don’t feel like you’re putting anyone out.”

  Glen swept her onto the dance floor twice, then said he needed to put some distance between them unless he wanted to end the evening too quickly or embarrass himself with a teenage hard-on all night.

  Just after midnight they made their way to the room, made it as far as the door to Mary’s room before clothes started falling like rain on a Seattle night.

  Later, Mary laid her head on Glen’s bare chest, one leg draped over his. “We didn’t cut out too soon, did we?” she asked.

  “We cut out just in time.”

  She let her eyes drift closed. “You have a wonderful family. I don’t want to offend them.”

  “You don’t have to worry about things like that.”

  Mary’s eyes opened with his words. Did she not have to worry because her time in his life was limited? Offending his family, his colleagues, didn’t matter if she wouldn’t be around next year during this event?

  Enjoy the moment, Mary.

  The sound of her cell phone, plugged in on her side of the bed, pulled her from her sleep.

  Glen rolled to his side and laid an arm around her bare waist.

  Her cell rang again and had her wiping her eyes into focus. The blackout curtains in the room did a great job of hiding the time. It was after eight but felt like the middle of the night.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounded as foggy as her head.

  “Mary? Hey, it’s Dakota.”

  “I recognize your voice . . . is everything okay? It’s early there.”

  “Who is it?” Glen asked with one eye open.

  “It’s Dakota.”

  “Hmm . . .” Glen closed his eye to match the other and swept her hips closer to his.

  “Is that Glen?” Dakota asked.

  “Yes, Captain Obvious. We aren’t out of bed yet . . . late night. If this is a social call, I’ll call you in a couple of hours.” Mary switched the phone to the other hand. “Dakota?”

  “Sorry . . . no, uh, it’s not, social. Not a social call.”

  Mary leaned up on one arm and attempted to wake up. “What’s up?”

  “I’m not sure how to say this.” Dakota’s voice wavered.

  Dakota’s voice never wavered.

  Mary scrambled to a sitting position. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your house . . . uhm. I was putting Leo back down after his feeding and caught light outside. A couple of lights were on at your place. I thought it was strange. I called over . . . you didn’t answer.”

  “I’m not there.”

  “Right, right. So I told Walt to check it out. Make sure the plumbers didn’t come by and leave stuff on, doors open . . . ya know.”

  “Cut to the reason you’re calling, Dakota.”

  Glen had opened his eyes, concern on his face.

  “Someone broke in, Mary.”

  Mary physically shook as a chill burned her bones. “Broke in?”

  “The police are over there now with Walt.”

  Mary envisioned her living room as she left it. Tarp still separated her front door from the living space, but everything was in its place.

  Glen placed a hand on her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  Mary found Glen’s eyes. “Someone broke into my house.”

  “What?”
/>   Dakota continued to talk. “Whoever broke in trashed things. Hard to tell if stuff is missing.”

  “Damn.”

  “Double damn,” Dakota replied. “How soon can you get back? The police need to know what’s missing.”

  Mary lowered the phone. “I need to go home.”

  Glen smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead before slipping off the bed and reaching for the hotel phone.

  Who would break into her place? Why? She didn’t have expensive stuff. Her life wasn’t bargain basement, but break-in worthy? Mary didn’t think so.

  “I’ll text you when I’m on the plane.”

  “Okay. Love you, Mary.”

  “Love you too.”

  Mary was dressed, packed, and en route to the airport within an hour. Glen drove through the city in his own thoughts.

  “I’m sorry our weekend is cut short,” Mary said when she saw the airport come in focus.

  Glen reached over, grabbed her hand, and kissed her fingers. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

  Somewhere over the Midwest Mary broke her silence. “You didn’t have to fly home with me.”

  He lowered his chin and met her stare. “If I’d been in LA, received the call you did this morning . . . would you have come back with me?”

  Of course.

  “That’s what I thought.” Glen wove his fingers with hers throughout the remainder of the flight.

  The ride from the airport to her condo took less than thirty minutes on a Sunday without traffic.

  The squad car in her driveway somehow made Dakota’s call more real than it had been all morning.

  Mary slowly opened the door while Glen talked with the driver.

  The front door was open, the tarp from inside kicked out with the wind.

  The sound of footsteps running across the street accompanied Walt’s voice calling out.

  “Mary!”

  From her peripheral vision, she saw Glen and Walt do a quick handshake as they both walked beside her.

  “Thanks for checking on the place.” The words were autopilot from Mary’s lips.

  “No problem. Listen, it’s a wreck in there.”

  Yeah, she got that from Dakota’s conversation. “I’m okay.”

  Walt’s expression told her she wouldn’t be.

  She crossed the threshold, moved back the tarp, and caught the edge of the wall with her shoulder.

  Her condo was trashed . . . there was no other way to describe it with one word. Everything that stood upright was on the floor. Her lamps tossed across the room, her couch was upside down with the cushions slashed and the stuffing pulled out. The few pictures she had were smashed and lying on the ground, shards of glass scattered all around.

  “Mary.” Glen said her name from a fog.

  “I’m okay.” She wasn’t. But saying she was somehow gave her the strength to move through her home.

  Two uniformed police officers stood in her kitchen . . . a kitchen that looked a lot like her living room. Drawers had been opened, dumped out. A pile of white powder . . . sugar, if she wasn’t mistaken, had been poured from the container she kept it in directly onto her stove, the container tossed to the side.

  “Officers, this is Mary Kildare. The homeowner.”

  Mary spun in a circle. “Does everything look like this?”

  Walt looked her in the eye. “Just about.”

  Glen stood at her side, his jaw a tight, unreadable line.

  “Miss Kildare, we have some questions—”

  She held up her hand.

  Their questions could wait.

  She walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

  Her bedroom was worse. The bed had been torn apart. Feathers from the pillows looked like a sixteen-year-old’s slumber party after a pillow fight. It didn’t look as if any of her clothing was still inside the dresser. She slowly moved into her bathroom and gasped. Like in every Hollywood movie that contained a break-in, lipstick had been used on her bathroom mirror.

  BITCH!

  Bold print.

  Exclamation point.

  She trembled.

  The shaking started at her feet and she felt it slowly rise and hit her knees. When the ripple had her catching her breath, she felt her body slump.

  Glen kept her from sliding to the ground.

  “I got ya. C’mon . . . let’s get you out of here.”

  She didn’t remember walking down the stairs, didn’t remember crossing the street. When she looked up, she was sitting in Dakota’s living room with her best friend’s arm around her, repetitions of everything is going to be all right drifting in the air.

  The police were in Dakota’s kitchen, talking with Glen.

  “Who would do that?” Mary’s words didn’t require an answer. She knew Dakota didn’t have one.

  “I don’t know. Walt and I’ve been asking ourselves that all morning.”

  “Did you see it?”

  Dakota nodded. “They wanted to know if I saw anything missing.”

  She knew she’d have to go back and look at everything . . . sort it all out.

  Glen and Walt accompanied the officers back into the living room. Glen handed her a cup of what looked like hot tea and took the seat beside her.

  “Miss Kildare . . . I know it’s difficult.” The older of the two policemen addressed her first.

  In slow, controlled measures, Mary felt the thoughts of a victim rise above the fog and those of the therapist start to take hold.

  Analyze.

  Conclude.

  Predict.

  “This was personal,” Mary muttered.

  The senior officer nodded. “That’s what we believe.”

  “Not a random act?” Glen asked.

  Mary shook her head. “Bitch was personal. Everything else . . . ransacking the house, tearing it up . . . could have been anyone looking for valuables.” Joke was on them; she didn’t have any to speak of.

  “Exactly.” The officer, whose name eluded her, sat on one of the opposite chairs. “Does anyone’s name pop in your head who would do this?”

  She shook her head with a shrug. “None.”

  “Your friends tell us you’re a therapist. What about your clients? Anyone unhappy with your advice? Anyone unstable?”

  Mary rested her head in her hand. “Many of my clients are unstable. Not clinically . . . well, maybe some. But . . .” She couldn’t start blurting out names. She had a confidentiality clause and edict that she had to hold herself to. “I haven’t had any threats.”

  “What about that crazy guy who called your house a few weeks ago?” Glen asked.

  Mary hesitated and caught herself. “No . . . he was upset—”

  “The guy was crazy, started calling you names.”

  “What was this man’s name?” the second officer asked.

  Mary put her hands in the air. “Speculation. And not something I can divulge.”

  “The man sounded insane enough to check out.”

  She narrowed her gaze to Glen. “You play pilot, I’ll play therapist. You’re barking up the wrong tree.” Only as the words left her mouth she wasn’t completely sure they were true. Jacob Golf had presented a few unstable behaviors in the past couple of months. Behaviors consistent with bipolar disorder or borderline personality disorder. Could she add psychotic behavior to the list? None of that guaranteed he was capable of tearing up her home.

  The officers exchanged glances. “If your opinion on the subject changes, or you come up with someone you think might be responsible, we’d appreciate your cooperation.”

  “I’m happy to cooperate, Officer . . .”

  “Taylor,” the senior officer reminded her.

  “Officer Taylor. You can understand my position. I have a long list of clients, none of which know where I live unless I missed one of them following me home, and I cannot simply hand out their names. I might not be a doctor, but I hold the same ideals of client confidentiality.”

  “Even if one of th
em destroyed your home?” the second officer asked.

  “If I believed one of my clients was involved, I’d happily give you their name.” She heard Glen grunt behind her. “I’d have to have more than one upset event to justify breaching my ethics.”

  “Someone broke into your house!” Officer Taylor said once again.

  Walt stepped forward. “I have to agree with Mary on this. And I am a doctor. I tick off a lot of patients when they come to my ER wanting something I’m not going to give. Drug seekers, hypochondriacs, psych patients wanting meds. Shelling out an endless list of names will simply have my license suspended. If Mary doesn’t have a name to give you . . . a viable threat . . . she doesn’t.”

  Mary welcomed the voice of reason, even if Glen appeared to steam on the outside of the conversation.

  Officer Taylor put the pad of paper he held in his hand back into his breast pocket and stood. “Okay. We need you to go through your house and tell us if anything is missing.”

  Mary ignored the feeling of liquid in her knees and stood.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Watching her walk back into her house brought physical pain to Glen’s chest.

  Mary held her chin high, pushed through the plastic a second time, and managed not to look like she’d been sucker punched in the gut like she had when they’d arrived an hour before.

  “Do we know how they got in?” she asked as she picked up a lamp and put it upright on a table.

  “Forced entry from the back.”

  “I’m surprised my neighbors didn’t hear this happening.”

  “We already questioned them. They said they heard a few things after midnight, but with all the workers you’ve had around, they ignored it and went back to bed.”

  Officer Taylor’s remote radio held a continual feed of noise as Mary walked around her condo setting her belongings upright. It was as if she was cleaning as she went.

  “I assume you’ve had someone in here dusting for fingerprints?” Glen asked.

  “We have. We concentrated on the point of entry, the bathroom upstairs, and the car.”

  Mary stood abruptly. “My car?”

  Another round of cops looking at each other, and Walt checking out his shoes, gave Glen another pull in his gut.