by Lyn Cote
Both twins shook their heads.
“Well, you two splash a little longer and then we’ll get you to bed.” Connie stood up and walked out into the hall. There, she leaned close. “What do you think?” she whispered.
“Too soon to tell,” he whispered back. “I’ll get in touch with the local precinct in that neighborhood.”
His voice snaked through Connie, lifting her from despair. Standing so close to him comforted her in a way she didn’t want to analyze. What an awful, frightening, exhausting day, Lord. “Should we say anything to Annie?”
“Not yet. Not till I find out it means something.”
“Okay.”
The boys climbed out of the tub and shook their wet bodies like two little puppies. Connie reached in and grabbed two towels off the towel bar. She handed one to Rand and they both dried down one boy and helped pull on clothing. Performing this homey chore side by side with him went straight to her heart.
“Are you going?” Connie asked when the boys bounded out into the kitchen, begging for chocolate milk. Please stay. Then she scolded herself. Of course, he’s leaving now that the boys are home and safe.
“Do you want me to stay until Gracie and Jack bring their mother home?” Rand sounded merely polite.
“No, no, we’ll be fine.” Her pulse raced at this misleading phrase. I’m not fine, not even close. She made her voice cheery. “I’m going to read them stories and maybe pop popcorn. They didn’t eat much supper.”
“Sounds good.”
Again, she heard only courtesy in his voice. What more did I expect? “You’ve spent all day with us and I’m sure you didn’t plan to,” Connie apologized, wishing he’d insist on staying longer. She didn’t feel quite so desperate when he was with her.
He pushed the door open an inch. “No problem.”
“Okay.” She turned away to the refrigerator for milk, but felt his gaze linger on her. What’s going on with me? I shouldn’t want him to stay. He’s the detective trying to find Troy. He’s not even a friend. But then why don’t I want him to go?
Nearly a week later on Thursday afternoon, Connie looked up from behind her desk.
“I need to talk to you.” T. R. Grove, the senior partner, leaned over Connie’s desk.
For a moment, she felt trapped. And then she shook off the silly idea. Just because Grove had closed her office door and just because he was speaking in a voice only above a whisper didn’t mean anything.
“Of course,” she responded in a low voice, following his lead. “Have a seat.”
Her last comment was superfluous since he’d already seated himself.
“I want to know why you have been spending time this week digging around in Lou Rossi’s files here.”
She stared at him. How do you know that?
“What are you up to?” Grove gave her a keen, assessing look.
Connie tried to decide what line to take, but no thought but the truth came to her. “I’m trying to find some lead to why Troy Nielsen, my friend’s husband and Lou’s nephew, disappeared after leaving one of Rossi’s sites almost two weeks ago.”
“Why?”
Connie lifted one open palm. “Because the detective isn’t making any progress.”
“You’re not a police detective,” Grove snapped. “You are a junior partner in this firm. You are paid to do the work you are given. Nothing more. This investigation into Rossi will end now.”
His crisp authoritarian tone surprised Connie. It was out of character for him. “I’m doing my work. I stay late every—”
“Do you get my point?” He leaned forward, pinning her with a laser-sharp gaze.
“You want me to stop investigating anything at the Rossi site that might have led to Troy being kidnapped,” Connie recited like a school child.
“Have the police said they think he was kidnapped?”
“No.” She flushed warmly.
“Have they intimated in any way that Rossi is implicated?”
“No,” she repeated.
“Leave this matter to the police.” Grove stood. “And concentrate on your prescribed duties. Will we have to have another conversation about this?”
“No.” Her face blazed now.
“Good.” Grove left without looking back. The door clicked shut behind him.
The interview left her shaking like a rubber band some unseen hand was still snapping. She pushed her chair back from her desk and rose. She needed a cup of coffee and a few minutes to figure out what had just happened.
In the empty break room, she poured herself her what, ninth cup of coffee for the day? Or was it the tenth? Maybe caffeine was responsible for her jitters.
Maureen, one of the firm’s paralegals, slipped inside. She closed the door behind her. “I tried to cover for you,” the middle-aged woman said softly.
“What are you talking about, Maureen?” Connie kept her tone discouragingly cool.
“I just saw Grove leave your office. He looked angry. I tried to cover for you, but it didn’t work.”
“Cover for me?” Connie wondered what motivated Maureen, what the woman knew. “Why?”
“Grove handles all Rossi work. His aide noticed you were asking for the Rossi Company files and other ones that have to do with Lou Rossi’s business public and private. And he mentioned it to Grove this morning.”
The revelation made Connie feel like she should start looking over her shoulder. Why would Grove’s aide take the time to notice what she was doing? And why would he think it worth the effort to tell Grove? “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Connie said in a quelling tone, sorry she hadn’t put Maureen in her place immediately.
“I’m trying to help you. This office is like a little kingdom. You’re old enough to get that. Nobody wants other members of the firm treading on their territory.”
Obviously as good an explanation for Grove’s tantrum as any. “Again, I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Connie reiterated.
Maureen pursed her lips.
Connie eyed Maureen and then cleared her throat. What don’t I know about Lou Rossi that Grove doesn’t want me to find out? But Connie refused to ask this woman. To do so wouldn’t be professional.
“I’ve got work to do.” Connie dismissed Maureen and turned toward the door. But from the corner of her eye, she caught Maureen’s look of concern.
“I’m just trying to help you avoid some pitfalls. There are some connections that our clients have that skate along the edge, if you know what I mean?”
Connie opened the door, but froze with her hand on the knob. What?
“And a word to the wise, you won’t get any thanks from the senior partners for making friends with a police detective.”
Maureen gave her a sad smile and left.
Connie didn’t move for several seconds. She felt exposed as if everyone in the office had been watching her. Finally, she forced herself back to her office, weighing Maureen’s motives and advice.
Late Thursday night, Rand hunched over a stale drink at the murky sports bar where the twins had turned up last Saturday morning and tried not to look like a cop. Cigarette and cheap cigar smoke fouled the air around him and a night baseball game blared from the large TV at the end of the bar.
This was his third visit to the bar this week and he finally felt like he was at the point where he’d sized up some of the other regulars. And that they had become comfortable enough around him to ignore him. No one gave him a second glance.
Rand took his time with his nonalcoholic beer. He’d had to keep a cool head while making sure he looked like he belonged in this smoky bar. So someone—a man who’d threatened Troy—might show his hand.
It was a long shot but it was all Rand had now. The sports bar was like so many others. Primarily men in work clothes or jeans, and some business casual—talking loudly, buying drinks, yelling at the players on the screen.
Then Rand had noticed a man in nondescript jeans and gray T-shirt who had been making his
way through the crowded bar since Rand had seen him enter an hour ago. It wasn’t the first time this man had appeared here. He’d seen him there on the previous two occasions. But a person had to be watching to see what the man was doing.
Rand stared at the screen, but out of the corner of his eye, he kept track of him. He’s good.
A question formed itself in Rand’s mind. Had Troy Nielsen frequented this bar because of its questionable ambiance, the big-screen TV or because of this sheetmaker?
Chapter Six
On Friday afternoon, Connie found herself in front of Rand O’Neill’s desk, in spite of her better sense. Her stomach burned. Lunch hadn’t settled well.
Papers littered his desk and he was on the phone. After a brief assessing look, he motioned for her to take the seat beside his desk. He began easing his conversation to an end. He hung up and looked at her again in that measuring way he had. “What can I do for you?” His voice was cool and said, “Don’t get too close.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” she mumbled. What did I come here for anyway? He isn’t exactly comfort central.
“How are Annie and the twins?” he asked.
“As good as can be expected.” Maybe she’d come because he alone in Taperville understood what was upsetting her—though he didn’t possess the power to change her worry over Troy and Annie. She shrugged away the longing for this man’s sympathy. He had none to offer. But he’d revealed the reason why—he’d lost someone, too.
“I haven’t contacted Annie this week,” O’Neill said.
“We’ll get through another weekend,” she commented, still thinking about his tragic loss. After Annie and Gracie’s mother had died, her dad had told them: “It isn’t what life throws at you. It’s how you handle it.”
Obviously, O’Neill had dealt with losing his wife by shutting down parts of his life. If Troy were never found, how would Connie respond to that awful truth? For the first time, she consciously contemplated that Troy might be found dead, that Annie might be left a widow or just a deserted wife. No!
“I have no progress to report to Annie,” he continued, his dour tone making Connie cringe.
I have something to report. I think Lou might have unsavory friends or business associates. And that this might have something to do with Troy’s disappearance. She couldn’t bring herself to voice these words.
Not Uncle Lou. Not the man who’d been her unofficial uncle for years. Maureen couldn’t have known anything. Saying that Lou skated along the edge. Trying to sound important. She should take up a career writing for tabloids. But Connie couldn’t make herself believe her own words.
“Is there anything wrong?” O’Neill asked, his eyes still analyzing her.
“Nothing,” she lied as she contemplated whether or not Troy might have had to flee for some reason. Could that explain his disappearance? Had he seen something he shouldn’t? Was he hiding because he’d discovered something shady about Lou? No, I can’t believe that.
“Did you have anything you wanted to tell me?” He leaned forward. The office sounds—phones ringing, some voices loud above a constant murmur, footsteps on institutional linoleum—surrounded their little island.
She found herself gazing into Rand’s gray eyes. He was drawing her in, making her want to pour out her fears to him.
“Do you know Floyd Sanders?” Connie blurted out, forcing them, the conversation away from Troy.
O’Neill looked at her. “Let me think.”
“Forget it. I shouldn’t have brought that up.” She edged forward, feeling like an idiot. What am I doing? I can’t violate client confidentiality. Why does this man tempt me to come to him for help? He can’t help me.
He tightened his jaw and then rose. “I’m due for a break. Why don’t we take a little walk? There’s a park behind the courthouse.”
Yes, let’s get out of here. It will make it easier to get away from you. Without comment, she rose and let him lead her outside into the balmy July day. The blue sky and the bright sunshine should have lifted her spirits but didn’t.
Rand said nothing and she was grateful. Under no circumstances could she tell him about her suspicions about Uncle Lou or about the prospects for her dismal case.
Finally, when they were alone under a spreading oak, he asked point-blank, “What’s bothering you that you don’t want me to know?”
I started this. She blinked sudden tears away. “Your sympathy is touching,” she said sarcastically. “It’s just the usual garbage. Nothing exciting.”
Rand gave an unamused laugh. “I get a lot of that myself.” He closed his mouth. Silence could be a powerful tool. It made people nervous and more likely to blurt out the truth. People always let you know what’s bothering them, what they’d rather die than let you know.
“I haven’t taken time to take a walk through this park,” she said as if they’d just been introduced at a formal garden party. “I’ve only seen it through the courthouse windows a few times. I didn’t realize it had such a variety of flowers.”
Come on, Connie. You know you didn’t stop by my office to talk about flowers. What’s bugging you? But knowing her, it had to do with Troy’s disappearance. He experienced a familiar burning in the pit of his stomach.
Outwardly, he agreed with her garden party comment but added nothing. He bided his time, hoping she’d fill in the yawning silence. He hated using his usual tactics on her. She wasn’t like everyone else. His inner critic snapped, “That’s just an illusion. Everyone is like everyone else.”
“Troy’s been gone two weeks now.” She paused and chanced a look up at him.
Now it’ll come. He didn’t know whether this pleased him or not.
“Do you think you have made any progress? Did you find out anything at that bar the boys went to?”
Still fencing with me? Rand inhaled deeply. “You’ll do well as a lawyer, Ms. Oberlin.”
“Why do you say that?” She glanced away.
“You don’t give anything away.”
“Well,” she sparred with him, “you’re quite the detective if you’ve figured that out.”
He didn’t bother to reply. Each of them had hoped for some information. Then he pictured himself sitting at that bar every few nights over the past week. What would happen if he told her about that? Easy, she’d be at the sports bar that very night, asking everyone there questions about Troy.
The charged silence between them stretched longer, longer. This time, standing with her feet planted and arms crossed, she waited him out, remaining still long enough to make him fill the silence.
He gave a grudging grin at her unlooked-for resistance. “I visited the sports bar, but I haven’t discovered anything specifically about Troy.” It’s just made me even more suspicious of the man. “So I’ve just continued down the list of identifiers for missing persons.” He hardened his voice, distancing himself from her, knowing she’d hate every word he said. “No action on his social security card—Troy hasn’t taken a job anywhere else. No action on his credit cards—he hasn’t checked into a hotel or charged anything. No reservation made—he hasn’t flown anywhere. Unless he hopped a freight train or a bus, he’s still in the Chicago area.”
She didn’t like what she heard—he saw it kindle in her eyes, but she didn’t retort.
Again, Rand waited, hoping for a hint of a clue. Anything.
“I guess I should just get back to work.” Her tone was flat, colorless and totally unlike her.
She was about to slip through his fingers again. Don’t leave—yet. He took her elbow in his hand. “You came to me for some reason. What is it?”
She chewed her lower lip, staring pointedly away from his eyes.
He pulled out the card he knew would get a response. “Would it help me find Annie’s husband?”
She looked up then.
He held his breath, unwilling to do anything that might stop her from the revelation she was about to let loose.
“I was…wondering if you
’d…done any digging into Lou Rossi’s business.” She hesitated. “I mean…Troy did disappear on his way home from Lou’s job site.”
Her naive question spoke volumes to him. A real babe in the woods. He let his hand drop from her arm. He’d already considered the Rossi connection. But he’d hoped his suspicion would be proved false. “What do you mean?” he asked in mock innocence.
“I mean…could he have seen something—a drug deal…?”
She was being oblique. She might not, but police departments knew all about the special hassles construction companies faced in large urban settings. Their job sites were sitting ducks for vandalism, theft. He’d found no evidence of drug dealing at the Rossi site, but that didn’t mean none had existed. Did she guess Rossi might have been the target of extortion?
Rand had already sketched this unpleasant possibility into his investigation. She needed to learn to suspect everyone until the case was solved—for her own good. After all, she was a lawyer. Why shouldn’t he just toss his speculation out in the open?
A little practical life in the trenches would bring her closer to earth where the rest of them lived. And the shock might force her to blurt out something.
“You mean,” he hardened his voice, “do I know if Rossi might have some connection to the Chicago mob?”
She gaped at him. Finally swallowing, she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He eyed her. Did she have any facts? He didn’t want to think that Rossi paid protection—had, in fact, found no evidence of it thus far. Was this just supposition on her part? He had no facts and truly shattering her illusions about an old family friend wasn’t his goal. Finding Nielsen was. “Then why did you ask the question?” Again, he bided his time.
“I…it’s just…” Her cell phone rang and she answered it.
Rand looked past her, but listened to the few words she said. Something about the downtown fire station.
“I’ve got to go. Something’s come up.” Connie looked as though she was about to say more, but obviously thought better of it. “Thanks for the stroll.” She offered him her hand.
He took her soft hand in his, but wondered what she’d do if he came closer and ran the back of his hand down her cheek. He let go of her. I am definitely getting too personally involved in this case and with this woman. Connie, this is the last private conversation we will be having.
