Len waved a piece of his whole-wheat turkey sandwich. “I’m lucky my wife knows about nutrition and got me to change my habits before it was too late.”
“Uh-huh. I heard that too much whole wheat can give you uncontrollable urges to watch the Shopping Channel.”
“You know what your trouble is? You need a woman of your own to take care of you.”
Naturally, an image of Becky munching on her salad stole into Jake’s mind at that comment. “Nope,” he mumbled around another bite of hot dog. “Not in the market.”
“Hey, Jake.” Lurleen, who worked the lunch shift at Edna’s diner on weekdays, paused beside their booth with her carafe in hand. “Do you want a refill on that coffee?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
She smiled, brushing his shoulder as she leaned over to pour, then looked at Len. “How are you doing on that milk? Need a refill?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Okay, then. Let me know when you’re ready for dessert. We’ve got pecan pie, Jake. Your favorite.”
Len watched Lurleen as she moved away, her hips swishing beneath her pink uniform. “I think she likes you.”
Jake had been aware of Lurleen’s interest for months. She was an attractive woman, but he had no intention of dating her and potentially messing up a good thing. This diner was his favorite place to eat, and he was more concerned about getting food here than getting companionship.
Yet if he did decide to date someone, a woman like Lurleen would be a more sensible choice than a woman like Becky. She was closer to his age. She was good-looking, but not a knockout, so she didn’t addle his wits whenever she was around. The memory of her face didn’t pop into his mind without warning to distract him the way Becky’s had been doing. Lurleen didn’t stir up his protective instincts or haunt his thoughts or…
Or interest him in the least.
“Sure, she likes me,” Jake said. “I’m a good tipper. You going to eat that pickle?”
“No. Do you realize how much salt is in one of those things?”
Jake plucked the pickle off Len’s plate and crunched into it, then slid his plate aside to clear a spot on the table. “Okay, do you have anything else to give me besides tips about better living through fiber?”
Len popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth, wiped his fingers on a paper napkin and reached into his sport coat. He withdrew a long, buff-colored envelope and tossed it in front of Jake. “Don’t laugh. This paper is probably better for you than that hot dog.”
“Thanks, Len. I owe you one.”
“You bet you do. I’ve got a tally going.”
Jake waited until Len left before he opened the envelope that his friend had given him. Inside was a printout of Peters’s arrest record. Jake unfolded the papers and leaned his back into the corner of the booth as he studied them.
He’d been acting on a hunch when he’d decided to pursue the possibility that Floyd Peters was no stranger to the law. There had been something about Floyd’s tone, the hint of guilty conscience, that had made Jake wonder how much practice he’d had avoiding questions. His hunch had been right.
There were no recent arrests—all had occurred before he started working with NASCAR. Floyd’s first arrest had been at nineteen. Auto theft. The charge had been dismissed after another boy had confessed that he’d done the hot-wiring and Floyd had just been along for the ride.
The next arrest had been for vandalism, but that charge had been dropped, too, without getting to trial for lack of evidence. The third arrest had been more serious. It had been for assault.
Jake shuffled the papers until he found the notes Len had made for him. The assault had taken place at a bar in Charlotte, and had been more of a mutual slugfest than an attack, from the sound of it. Floyd hadn’t thrown the first punch, either. He’d been defending himself and his girlfriend from a group of bikers.
Peters had been a hotheaded kid, Jake thought. A little on the wild side, but none of the arrests pointed to a habitual criminal nature. There were no more recent arrests on his sheet after the one for assault, and he didn’t actually have a criminal record, since no charges were ever laid. He’d kept his nose clean since he’d married Lizzie, the woman he’d fought to defend.
All right. That fit with the picture of Floyd’s character Jake had been putting together. The man had been impulsive and argumentative, but he’d learned self-control. There must have been plenty of passion, both good and bad, in his relationship with his wife. Lizzie must have meant a lot to him, since he’d stood up to a biker gang for her.
The question was, what else would Floyd have done for Lizzie?
There was no doubt their marriage had been rocky. Both Earl and Becky confirmed it. Plenty of couples believed a child would mend a floundering marriage, but the Peters hadn’t tried any of the legal adoption routes.
Jake turned back to the copy of Floyd’s arrest record. This was the reason Peters and his wife hadn’t pursued a conventional adoption. Few legitimate agencies would be inclined to give an infant to a man who had been arrested for assault.
Thus Floyd’s options would have been limited. He wouldn’t have been able to adopt through an agency, and he wouldn’t have the kind of money needed to obtain a child through the unscrupulous, illegal rings who trafficked in babies. It was still possible that he’d known someone who had wanted to give up her child without going through a lawyer.
It was also possible that he’d decided to steal one.
Jake refolded the papers and slipped them back into the envelope as he considered what he knew so far. Floyd Peters had a strong motive to kidnap Gina: he wanted to save his marriage by adopting a child, but he couldn’t do it legally. Floyd had opportunity: he had been on the NASCAR circuit the summer the Grosso twins were born, and would have been in Nashville when Gina was kidnapped. Since Lizzie had usually traveled with him, she had likely been in Nashville, too. Both of them would have known Patsy Grosso was pregnant, and both of them would have heard she’d given birth to twins. Had they felt the Grossos could spare one?
Hospital security hadn’t been as sophisticated in the seventies as it was now. It wouldn’t have been that difficult for the Peters to snatch the baby, since Becky had said that Lizzie used to work as a receptionist in a hospital. Her job would have been in Charlotte, not Nashville, but it would have familiarized her with hospital routines. She could have figured out how to get in and out of a maternity ward without attracting attention. Add to that the fact Floyd had a history of impulsive behavior where Lizzie was concerned and the scenario became not only possible, but plausible.
So, the Peters had means, motive and opportunity. The deeper Jake dug, the more likely it looked that Becky could be Gina. Or…
Or was he interpreting the facts that way because he wanted to make Becky happy?
He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. He couldn’t be sure of his objectivity where Becky was concerned. He had seen how important finding her birth family was to her, and from what he’d learned about her childhood, he could understand why. If it turned out that she was Gina, it would be like her youthful fantasy coming true. The Grossos would welcome her with no reservations. She would have someplace to belong. And Patsy would be thrilled to have a daughter like Becky.
So it was absolutely vital for Jake to keep a clear head.
“Here’s your pie, Jake.” There was the sound of crockery clicking on the table in front of him. “Hey, are you okay?”
Jake didn’t recall ordering pie, but Lurleen had brought him a piece, anyway. No, not a piece, a slab. It was so large it hung over the edges of the plate. He thanked her and picked up his fork. The extra sugar was bound to improve the circulation in his brain.
BECKY CHECKED her watch and grimaced at how late she was. It was almost five, so she wouldn’t blame Jake if he’d decided not to wait for her. She ran up the remaining flight of stairs to the second floor, then hurried down the hall. Her heart sank when she noticed a man loitering
outside Jake’s office door.
Jake had told her that he spent most of his time away from his office, which made sense. A private investigator would need to do stakeouts or interview witnesses or follow people. That’s what they did in the movies, anyway. There was only so much a person could find out by telephone or computer. She couldn’t expect Jake to stay here indefinitely. He had a business to run, and finding Gina Grosso wouldn’t be his only case.
“Oh, no,” she said as she neared the man by the door. He was short and dark, and though the day’s heat had penetrated the hall, he kept his chin against his chest as if he were cold. “Isn’t Mr. McMasters there?”
As soon as she spoke, the man shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and turned away from Jake’s office. He walked past her quickly and headed for the stairs, leaving a whiff of stale cigarette smoke in his wake.
She wondered about the man’s behavior for a moment until a high-pitched whine came from the office next to Jake’s. It was the unmistakable sound of a dentist’s drill.
Becky shook her head in sympathy. The man must have been heading for the dentist, not Jake, and had lost his nerve. She continued to Jake’s door. Like the others on this floor, it had an old-fashioned frosted-glass window set into the wood and another window above the lintel. Judging by the lack of an elevator and the worn risers on the wooden stairs, this building was likely as old as her landlady’s house.
Jake must enjoy the character of old buildings as much as she did, Becky thought. Otherwise, he probably would have found an office in a place where he didn’t have to negotiate a flight of stairs. On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine Jake admitting that any obstacle was too much for him.
She tried the knob to find it was locked. Rapping lightly on the door, she tried to peer through the frosted glass but couldn’t see any sign of movement inside. Sighing, she stepped back and was about to give up when she noticed the mail slot in the lower part of the door. She was considering whether to leave Jake a note when she heard him call her name.
“Becky!” Jake was walking toward her from the direction of the staircase. “Sorry, I’m late,” he said as he approached. “The city decided resurfacing only the roads that weren’t one-way would be a good idea. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
“Don’t apologize. I just got here. We were probably stuck in the same jam.” She smiled as he drew nearer. In spite of the cane, his movements were fluid since he incorporated his limp into the rhythm of his stride. He was carrying a dark blue gym bag in his free hand. He must work out, she decided, once again appreciating his trim physique. “Thanks for agreeing to see me.”
“No problem.” He unlocked his door and ushered her in. “Just give me a few minutes to stash my stuff and I’ll be right with you.”
The office was deep and narrow, but he’d made the most of the space. A row of filing cabinets lined one wall while a bookshelf and large storage cabinet stood against the other. Farther into the room, two invitingly worn, burgundy leather armchairs were angled in front of a scarred oak desk with a brass banker’s lamp. The high-backed chair behind the desk was upholstered in more burgundy leather. Sunlight from the window in the far wall was filtered by a set of wooden-slatted venetian blinds, giving the afternoon a feeling of dusk.
Becky thought the place suited him. The vintage furniture looked comfortable and practical, with no pretenses. All he needed was an outer office with a secretary, a rotary-dial phone and manual typewriter on his desk rather than a computer, and the office could have served as the set for an old detective movie.
Jake took an envelope from his gym bag, unlocked one of the filing cabinets and put the contents of the envelope inside. Next, he took a camera from the bag and placed it on a shelf in the storage cabinet. Becky glimpsed a row of neatly arranged electronic equipment beneath it, along with something that resembled a microphone inside a large, plastic bowl. It must be one of those parabolic microphones like the kind she had seen on the sidelines at football games. This was his surveillance gear, she thought, her curiosity stirring. “Were you on a stakeout?”
“You could call it that.”
“What’s it like?” she asked.
“Boring. It’s a necessary evil in this business, though. Sometimes it’s the only way to catch a break.”
“Can you tell me about the one today?”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with your case.”
“That doesn’t matter. I’m curious.”
He relocked both cabinets, hooked the strap of his gym bag on a wooden coat tree beside the door and looked at her. “Why are you so interested?”
Because you’re an interesting man with a darn sexy walk and I want to know more about you.
Becky moved to one of the armchairs and put her purse on the seat. Sexy walk? Well, yes, in spite of the limp, it was sexy. Or maybe it was sexy because of the limp. In order to work his cane, he flexed his shoulders and tightened his arm muscles with each stride. For him, walking involved his whole body, and he obviously had excellent control. It must have taken a lot of strength to overcome whatever handicap had caused that hitch in his step. Determination, too. That was more attractive to Becky than perfection. “I’ve never known a private investigator before,” she said. “And look at it this way. If you tell me something about yourself, you can steer the conversation back to me and get more information. You remember. That’s what you did when we had lunch.”
He blinked, then burst into laughter.
Becky smiled, enjoying the sound. Not many men were confident enough to laugh at themselves, but she should have known that Jake would be. It was a quality that was as attractive as the unique way he moved.
“And here I thought I was being clever,” he said.
“You didn’t need to be clever. I want your investigation to succeed as much as you do.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He walked past her to his desk, turned and leaned back against the front edge. “Okay, speaking hypothetically so I don’t break any client confidentiality, if the guy who ran my favorite pizza place was being sued by a customer who slipped on tomato sauce and claimed a bad back, I might stake out the man’s house. Then if I got pictures of the customer carrying a ladder and climbing onto his garage roof to reshingle it, the lawsuit would go away.”
“Your friend must have been grateful.”
“Still speaking hypothetically, he might have promised me free pizza for a year.”
“That’s great.”
“Uh-huh. Pizza’s one of the major food groups. Right up there with hamburgers and fries.”
She smiled. “How did you get started in the P.I. business?”
“A buddy of mine ran an investigative service and offered me a job when I got out of the military. He retired a few years ago and I took over the business.”
“You were in the military? What branch?”
“Army, Special Forces.”
Becky could easily picture Jake as a soldier, especially as one of the elite fighters of the Special Forces. He would have looked incredible in a uniform. Now that she thought about it, he still had a certain military pride to his bearing. With his height and impressive physique, he would have been outstanding in combat. Her gaze slid to his leg and her smile faded. “Is that where…” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
“No, you’re right. That was where I trashed my leg. Operation Desert Storm, to be exact. You would have been in grammar school then.” He propped his cane against the desk beside his hip and crossed his arms. “Now it’s your turn. Why did you want to see me? Did you think of something else about your adoption?”
She didn’t want to change the subject, but she could see by the look on his face he was finished talking about himself. She didn’t push. Even though he’d spoken casually about his injury, it was likely a sensitive topic. “No, I didn’t remember anything else. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be out of town next week.”
“
Where are you going?”
“I have a catalogue shoot in Rome.”
“Georgia?”
“No, Rome, Italy.”
“Wow. That’s impressive.”
“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. I do a lot of catalogue work in Europe. They’re always looking for new faces.” She dug through the purse that she’d left on the chair. “Here’s my agent’s number,” she said, drawing out a business card. “On the back I’ve written the number of the foreign agency that booked the shoot. One of them will know the address of the models’ apartment.”
“Models’ apartment?”
“It’s usually a condo that’s owned by the agency. They rent it to models coming in from out of town. It’s a convenient arrangement all around.”
He stretched forward and took the card. His fingers brushed hers.
And just like that, her excuse for coming to the office fell apart. It had seemed reasonable when she’d been on her way here, even though she could easily have given him this information over the phone.
Fine, maybe she’d simply wanted to see him. Feel the little tingles when he touched her. Watch the dimple in his cheek deepen with his smile. Hear the calm strength in his voice…
“Thanks.”
She pulled back her hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, impatient with herself. Finding her birth family was her priority. Simply because she was developing a crush on the detective who might accomplish that didn’t mean she’d forgotten. “It’s in case you need to get in touch with me.”
“Right. That’s good thinking.”
“Do you think you might?”
“What?”
“Need to get in touch with me.”
Jake slipped the card into his shirt pocket. “Is this your way of asking if I’ve made progress?”
“Only if you’re not going to start into another lecture about not getting my hopes up.”
He gestured toward the armchairs, inviting her to sit. “I’m only concerned about you, Becky,” he said.
She left her bag on the chair seat and perched on the arm so her gaze was more or less level with Jake’s. “Yes, and I understand you’ve got a protective nature. You look out for your clients the same way you used to look out for your little brothers. But as much as I used to long for siblings, I don’t really need you to be my big brother, Jake.”
Within Striking Distance Page 5
