He’d find out when he located her. And he’d make sure she never did anything like this again.
“Thanks to the deal I made last week,” Julien said, “I’ll make more money this month than I made last year. I think I can afford to take a few days off.”
“If you’d be willing to expand—”
“And cut into Geoffrey’s pie. No, thank you.”
“Your brother is bringing a lot of income to the family.”
A lot of income because the man had no morals. “He’s a thug, Papa. I will not stoop as low as he. No money is worth that.”
There was a long silence on the other side of the line. Julien’s blood pressure ticked up with each passing second. Finally, Papa said, “That thug, as you call him, is building an empire.”
“On the backs of—”
“You might be the elder son, Julien, but he has proved himself. And he has heirs to leave the business to someday.”
“I have an heir.”
“So you say.”
Julien let the words sink in. He looked at Hector, who was studying him across the car. Farah’s eyes were focused on the limo floor.
Julien looked out the window at the arid landscape, the lush foliage, the gleaming homes. Two bicyclists rode along the street toward him, the evening breeze flapping their clothes behind them.
Julien turned away. “We’ve nearly arrived. I will call you later.”
“See that you do.”
Julien waited until his father had disconnected before he slipped his phone back into his pocket.
It would work out. His father would see Julien was right about Geoffrey. He’d fall in love with Jean-Louis. Julien had been shortsighted in not introducing his parents to Rae earlier. She’d wanted to meet them, and his parents understood the situation. How did one share his line of work with an outsider? He needed to marry her first, be sure of her allegiance, before he confided in her. His father had agreed it would be better to wait until the baby was born to share the more...delicate aspects of his business. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t have met.
And now, she was gone, and his father was all too willing to write Rachel and Jean-Louis off in favor of Geoffrey and his little thug sons.
If only Martine hadn’t been barren.
Hector cleared his throat, and Julien looked up. “What is it?”
“I’m having trouble nailing Aziz’s people down.”
Julien leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
“We have arranged for receipt of the goods, but Aziz is hesitating about setting a delivery date. They’ve put it on hold.”
Julien muttered a curse. He needed this deal to go through. His hold on power was tenuous at best, but if he lost this, he might lose his father’s respect along with it. “Fix this, Hector.”
“I’m sure it’s logistics, nothing more.”
“I hope you’re right.”
He looked out the window again as the limousine turned down a neighborhood street. The homes were enormous, many Spanish and Mediterranean styles. In a strange way, it reminded him of Tunis. All the bright colors. So unlike Paris, where the buildings and streets were covered in a soft gray patina.
Nothing dulled this. If not for the limo’s tinted windows, he’d need his sunglasses.
They pulled into the driveway of a brick single-family home. From the outside, he guessed it to be at least three hundred square meters. The Americans would call it three thousand square feet.
The driver opened the door. Julien said, “Wait here,” and stepped out.
He took a path lined in dark green bushes. The air smelled of flowers and sunshine. Had Rachel grown up in this house? She’d never told him much about her childhood. He hadn’t gotten the impression her parents were wealthy, but this neighborhood reflected incomes beyond the average American standard of living. He tried to imagine Rae riding this street on her bicycle, running around on that lawn. The image wouldn’t come.
Would she answer the door? If she did, would the smile that had captured him from the start greet him, or would she be more shocked than happy?
Would she try to run?
He’d been too gentle with his wife. Perhaps he’d become accustomed to Martine and her acquiescent personality. Of course she had known what he did for a living, what he was capable of. Julien had never let Rae see that side of him. As soon as he got her home, that would change.
The front door stood at least three meters high and looked aged, as though it had been taken from some ancient mission. He rang the bell. A moment later, a middle-aged woman with short, curly brown hair opened the door. She wore a blue blazer over matching slacks and silver sandals. She tilted her head when she saw him, then smiled. “May I help you?”
“Are you Mrs. Adams?”
She nodded. “I am.”
“I am Julien Moreau.”
Her expression didn’t change. Not a good sign.
“I’m looking for Rachel.”
Her smile faded, along with the pink in her cheeks.
Julien waited for her to say something, but she seemed speechless.
“I am her husband. Is she not here?”
“Here?” The woman looked behind her as if seeking help. Then turned back to him. “She hasn’t been here in...” She blinked twice, shook her head slightly. “Rachel passed away.”
Passed away? “No, no. I must have the wrong house.” But Farah had said this was it, and Farah was rarely mistaken. “The woman I’m looking for is thirty years old. A reporter. Attended Columbia University.”
“Look, if this is some kind of a joke...” The woman grabbed the door and swung it toward him.
Julien stopped the door with his hand. “Perhaps there’s been a mistake. Could you look at this photograph?”
“I don’t need to look. My daughter died years ago.”
The woman could be lying, but she seemed sincere. The reaction, the paling skin. He had the wrong house.“Forgive me for intruding.”
He’d taken two steps toward the limo when the woman added, “But she went to Columbia.”
He froze. Turned. “Columbia?”
“Got accepted. Enrolled. But then she disappeared.”
“But you said she died.”
“A year later. In LA.”
He didn’t understand. It had to be a different Rachel. But what were the chances, two women from La Jolla with the same name and birthday, both going to Columbia?
He pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through the photographs. He found one of Rachel and Jean-Louis, turned the phone to the woman. “This is my Rachel.”
The woman stepped back. “Come inside.” She left the door open and walked into the house.
He followed, admired the grand entrance and curving staircase. Tried to picture Rae as a little girl, playing in these rooms.
Based on the woman’s reaction to the picture, Rae had never been here.
She stopped in the hallway and pointed to a portrait of a teenager with dark brown hair and brown eyes. She had the round face of a girl who liked American cheeseburgers.
“That’s Rachel’s senior picture. By the time she went to college, she’d lost all the extra weight. I was so proud of her, until I realized she’d lost it because she’d started using drugs.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not the same girl.”
Indeed, there was no resemblance.
Seemed his wife had spun a web of lies to rival Julien’s. Fortunately, he was good at ferreting out the truth.
Eleven
Brady slammed his laptop closed, stood, and stretched. He’d spent the morning working on the burglaries with zero luck. Now he needed to focus on what was going on with Rae. Not that it was any of his business, but something didn’t feel right. If she was in danger, he needed to know so he could keep her and his town safe.
Brady shoved his hand in his pocket, felt the handful of change, and headed for the vending machine. What he needed was a jolt of caffeine.
&nbs
p; Saturday night, the late bust, and then the shocking reunion with Rae had kept his eyes from closing until almost dawn. And Sunday night... Yeah, that was Rae’s fault too. He’d spent most of his should-be-sleeping time replaying the better moments of their past, when they were children and such good friends. When they were teenagers and so much more. When Brady had finally drifted into sleep Sunday night, he’d dreamed of her.
He had to stop.
He bought his soda and poured a quarter of the sweet fizz down his throat. Better. Nothing like sugar and caffeine to reset the brain functions.
He should just accept Rae’s story and let it go. A wise person would. He’d never been accused of great wisdom.
He returned to his desk, grabbed his phone, and dialed a number written on his blotter.
“Law offices.”
“Hey, Ellen. Is Gordon in?”
“Sure. I’ll buzz you through.”
A moment later, Gordon picked up the phone. “Tell me you found Reagan.”
“She came home this weekend. I take it she hasn’t called you yet.”
“Not a word.”
“If you don’t hear from her soon, call or stop by Dorothy’s house.”
“Surely she’ll call me. She has to know we have business to discuss.”
Brady ran his palm over his scalp. “But this is Reagan McAdams we’re talking about. Anything’s possible.”
The older man’s laugh rumbled through the phone. “She’s a lot like Dorothy, isn’t she? I’d forgotten that.”
Gordon might be right. Of course it had been so long since he’d spent any time with Rae, who knew what she was like?
Brady hung up the phone and stared at his laptop. It was time to figure out what was up with her car. Rae had told him she’d come home to see about her grandmother, and that was probably true. She’d also given him the impression she wouldn’t be staying long. But Rae had said she was going back to her husband, and if that were the case, then why the car with temporary plates?
One quick check of those plates revealed what Brady had already suspected. She’d bought the car. A call to the dealership in Manchester told him she’d paid cash.
“Hardly bickered at all about the price,” the salesman said. “I told her seven thousand, she offered me sixty-five hundred and started counting out Ben Franklins.”
Being a cop had its privileges. “Anything else you can tell me? Anything unusual about the sale?”
“Yeah, I’d say. After she bought the car, she asked me if she could have a ride to the store ’cause she didn’t have a car seat and couldn’t hold the baby and drive at the same time. It was a slow day, so I drove her, and another salesman followed me. Weird, right?”
“Did you happen to see how she arrived at your dealership?”
“Taxi. With luggage to boot. She had the kid in one of those backpack kind of things, only on the front. You see someone get out of a taxi, you think cha-ching, I’m gonna make a sale. That’ll be my easiest sale all month.”
“Do you remember anything else about her?”
“She looked wicked tired, like she hadn’t slept in days. But with a baby, maybe she didn’t, you know?”
He did know. Too well.
Brady laid the phone in the cradle and rubbed his temples. His hunch had been right, but what did it mean? The sooner Brady could shut up that niggling voice in his head that told him Rae needed his help, the sooner he could return to his normal life.
Such as it was.
With a new search window open, he typed Julien Moreau. He spent an hour looking for information on Rae’s elusive husband. A photograph, a marriage certificate, something. As unusual as the name seemed to Brady, it was fairly common in Europe, so it wasn’t that the search didn’t turn up anything, it was that it turned up too much. An artist studying at the Sorbonne, a chef at some restaurant in Nice. Every man named Moreau he found had to be wrong. Brady clicked on one he hadn’t checked out yet. Julien Garcia Moreau, born in 1975 in Toulouse, France. He checked the map and found the city in the southern-central part of the country. She’d said he was from southern France, hadn’t she? A few more clicks and Brady discovered this Julien Moreau was a businessman working in... And there it was. Tunisia. This had to be the guy.
Brady clicked on the guy’s business profile. Seemed his corporation had a hand in a lot of different kinds of business, most of which were operating somewhere in Northern Africa. Brady clicked on the corporation’s website, translated it into English, and read. Bringing manufacturing and commerce opportunities to the people of Africa.
Julien Moreau was just the type of guy Reagan would fall for. He clicked on the photograph and studied it. Moreau had a thin face, a straight, narrow nose, and dark wide-set eyes. His jet black hair was straight and cut short. He had the swarthy skin of a Middle-Eastern man, and that skin matched little Johnny’s coloring. Brady supposed some women might find this Moreau guy attractive. Handsome, successful... So what was going on in their marriage?
“Brady?”
He looked up to see Samantha Messenger approach his desk with a yellow sticky note in one hand. “Sorry. I saw your note when I got in this morning, but it’s been crazy today.”
“No problem. You have a minute now?”
She nodded and tossed the note in the trash can.
“Have a seat.”
She sat in the wooden chair beside his desk, a flicker of worry in her eyes. “Not often I get pulled into the police station. What’s going on?”
“What are you talking about?” Brady grinned for the first time all day. “You’re here all the time.”
“Well, sure.” She flicked her hand toward the door that separated the small police station from the clerk’s office. “But I’m not usually summoned. Is something wrong?”
His grin faded, and he leaned forward. “When’s the last time you heard from Rae?”
She blinked twice and sat straighter. “After graduation, same as you. Did she call?”
He took a deep breath. “She’s back.”
Samantha's jaw dropped. “Back? Wow. I thought when she didn’t turn up for the funeral—”
“She hadn’t heard. I dropped that bomb on her.”
Samantha tilted her head. “So if she didn’t know, then why’d she come home?”
He explained Rae’s reasoning.
“She could have just called someone.”
“But would she? She also swears she’s been home before, and Dorothy said the same thing. But she avoided everyone from town like the Ebola virus.”
Samantha sat back and smiled. “She called you this time, though. See, I told you she wouldn’t stay mad forever.”
He shook his head slowly. “That’s not exactly how it happened.” He explained his late-night run-in with Rae. “I don’t know what she would have done if I hadn’t shown up.”
“So how does she look?”
Brady pictured her for about the millionth time since Saturday night. “Good, I guess. She has... Actually...” Brady really wanted to get Samantha's impression of Rae, and he didn’t want to color it with his own. Sam had developed some keen instincts, and he’d learned to trust her judgment.
“She has a—?” she prompted.
“Never mind.” Brady straightened the pens and pencils on his desk. “I told her to call you.”
“Of course. Do you think she will?”
He relaxed a little and shrugged.
“She still mad?”
“She said she forgave us.”
Tears filled Samantha's eyes, and she looked at her hands in her lap. “I never wanted to hurt her. Neither of us did.”
“It’s not your fault she disappeared for twelve years.”
“It was my fault, though.”
“I was there too. You didn’t force me.” He pulled open the drawer second from the bottom and grabbed a snack-sized Snicker’s bar. “Here.”
She took it, unwrapped it, and popped it in her mouth. “That solves everything.”
He took one himself and shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”
She sat back and looked down at her hands again. “So if she has forgiven us, why hasn’t she ever come back? Or at least called?”
He shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t care enough.” Twelve years had passed, and Rae had never contacted either of them. Best friends since diapers, and then just like that, she was gone. “You’ll feel better after you talk to her.”
“Do you?”
He refused to feel anything, and he certainly wasn’t stupid enough to get tangled up with Rae again. “So...” He grabbed a pencil and doodled on his blotter, going for casual with the only picture he knew how to make, a side-view of Snoopy he’d learned to draw in second grade. “You know Rae. She could be gone tomorrow.”
“And that would be tragic.”
He kept doodling. He’d learned to ignore bait like a granddaddy trout in Clearwater Lake.
She cleared her throat. “You have a phone number for her?”
He looked up and shook his head. “She says her cell doesn’t work here. You could try the house phone, or just go over there.”
“I’ll do it today.”
Twelve
Rae sat back on her heels and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Might be September, but with all the searching she’d done in the last two hours in this stifling barn, it was no wonder she was dripping in sweat. The birds’ music outside and the gentle sway of the breeze blowing through the windows and door were like a soothing soundtrack to her work. And then she’d heard something that didn’t belong. She stilled and listened.
Tires on the asphalt, a gentle squeak of brakes.
After a glance at Johnny snoozing soundly in his bouncy seat, Rae skulked to the door and looked. She ignored the jolt of fear. It couldn’t be Julien. He couldn’t have found her already.
A white Isuzu Trooper was parked in the drive. Samantha Messenger stepped out and walked toward the house. She hadn’t changed much since Rae’d last seen her, twelve years earlier, except where Samantha’s dark hair had been short in high school, now it was long enough to pull into a ponytail, which hung halfway down her back. Samantha’d filled out more in the years, and Rae found herself still jealous of the shorter woman’s curvy figure. Sam approached the house, and Rae lost sight of her when she walked up the steps. Rae heard the faint sound of knocking. Then nothing. Then footsteps on the wooden front porch. Rae stifled the desire to sneak a peek. Maybe Sam was looking through the windows.
Convenient Lies Page 6
