by Debra Webb
“Let’s talk about the people closest to you.”
“My sister and I have always made it a point to have dinner a couple of times a week. Since the fall, she stays the night whenever I need her—or when she decides it’s necessary. I don’t see my brother as often. He’s very busy. There’s Suzanna Clark, the housekeeper, and her husband, Leonard, the gardener.”
“You said your sister started staying with you at night again because of the voices.”
Natalie hated admitting this part, but it was necessary. “About two months ago I started waking up at night and hearing voices—as if someone is in the house. I get up and search every room only to find I’m here alone.” If only she could convey how very real the voices sounded. It terrified her that perhaps her brother was right and she was imagining them. “Until this morning.”
“What about your colleagues at the office?”
The uneasiness that plagued her when she thought of work seeped into her bones. Since the fall, her professional inadequacy filled her with dread whenever the subject of work came up. She’d once lived for her career.
“I have my assistant, Carol. Art Rosen is the partner I work closest with. I’m well acquainted with everyone on staff. I have no rivals or issues with my colleagues, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Friends or a boyfriend?”
Ah, now he would learn the truly saddest part. “Before the injury, I had lots of friends, most were associated with work. We lost touch during my recovery.” She forced a smile. “There’s nothing like tragedy to send the people you thought were your friends running in the other direction. It was partly my fault. I was always so strong and self-reliant. People didn’t want to see the weak, needy me. Except for Sadie. She’s my psychologist as well as my friend.”
“Boyfriend?” he repeated. “Fiancé?”
She drew in a big breath. “There was a boyfriend. He had asked me to marry him but I kept putting him off. Work was my top priority. About three months into my recovery, he apparently no longer had the stomach for who I’d become.”
The dark expression on the investigator’s face told her exactly what he thought about such a man.
Natalie shook her head. “Don’t blame him, Mr. Hayes. I’m—”
“Clint,” he reminded her.
“Clint,” she acknowledged.
“If he cared enough to propose,” Clint argued, “there’s no excuse for his inability to see you through a difficult time.”
“He proposed to the woman I used to be.” Natalie understood the reasons all too well. Steven Vaughn had ambitious plans that didn’t include a potentially disabled wife. “I’m not that person anymore. I doubt I ever will be. Part of me was lost to the injury and now my entire life is different. I don’t blame him for not wanting to be a part of it. After all, if you invest in gold, silver is not a suitable substitution.”
Clint studied her for a long moment before going on. “No one in your circle would have had reason to want to do you harm at the time of your accident or now?”
Natalie laughed, a self-deprecating sound. “Therein lies the true rub. Though my current short-term memory works well now, everything beyond six months ago is a very different story. So I can’t answer that question because I can’t remember. To my knowledge I have no enemies. My colleagues and family know of no one who gave me any real trouble in the past.”
“How much of your memory did you lose?”
“Perhaps the better word is misplaced. The injury jumbled things up. Our lives—our memories—are stored. Like files in a filing cabinet. Imagine if that cabinet was turned upside down, the drawers would open and those files would spill all over the floor. The contents of the files are still there, but they’re hard to retrieve because now they’re out of order.”
“So you do remember things.”
She nodded. “Yes. As my brain healed from the injury, it was like starting over. I had to relearn how to communicate, how to function, mentally as well as physically. As my vocabulary returned, I used the wrong words like saying hands when I meant gloves or feet when I meant shoes. Memories came in disorderly fragments. Most often they returned when prompted by some activity or person. It’s difficult to say what I’ve lost when I have no idea what I had. My sister and brother remind me of childhood events and then I recall them vividly. I can look at photographs and recall almost instantly what happened. So, I suppose I’ve temporarily lost many things. But, so far, the memories return when triggered.”
“Then someone may have caused your accident two years ago and you just don’t remember.”
The dark foreboding that always appeared when she spoke of the fall pressed in on her even as she shook her head. “No. I was here with my sister. There was no one else in the house. My sister and I have been over the details of that night numerous times. If you’re suggesting that someone pushed me down the stairs, that isn’t what happened.”
“All right then, we’ll focus our investigation on life since the accident.”
She wanted to nod and say that was the proper course of action and yet some feeling or instinct she couldn’t name urged her to look back for something she had missed. Frustration had her pushing the idea away. The hardest part of her new reality was not being able to trust her own brain to guide her 100 percent of the time. She also wanted to correct his use of accident. She had never been able to see what happened that way. To Natalie it was the fall—a moment in time that changed her life forever. A part of her wondered if her inability to see it as an accident was her mind trying to tell her something she needed to remember.
“Since you only recently returned to work, has there been a particular case that may be the root of this new trouble? Maybe someone believes they can scare you into some sort of cooperation.”
“I somehow doubt that giving my two cents’ worth, so to speak, on the steps that have been missed or that should be taken on other people’s cases would garner that sort of attention. Considering what happened today, I doubt I’ll have a position at the firm much longer.”
Natalie decided that was the part that hurt the most. Losing her friends and even her so-called soul mate hadn’t been the end of the world. It was losing her ability to practice law that devastated her completely. Work was the one thing that had never let her down. Being an attorney had defined her.
What did she have now?
This big old house and...not much else.
Her attention settled on the investigator watching her so closely. She hoped he could find something to explain how the man she shot suddenly disappeared other than the possibility that she really was losing her mind.
Chapter Three
Richard Arrington Boulevard and 6th Avenue
Tuesday, September 20, 10:00 a.m.
Clint’s first client as a private detective had been at work for an hour when he decided to make his appearance at the offices of Brenner, Rosen and Taylor.
He’d stayed with Natalie last night until her sister, April, arrived. He’d gone home afterward and done some research on Natalie’s career and background. He’d discovered that one of the senior associates at Natalie’s firm was Vince Farago, an old school pal of his from Samford. Clint gritted his teeth. He wondered if Natalie was aware that the man could not be trusted in any capacity. Farago was the proverbial snake in the grass.
Clint would stop at Natalie’s office and check in with her after he visited with his old friend. He had a few questions for Farago, and frankly he intended to enjoy watching the guy squirm.
The moment he entered the posh lobby the receptionist looked up. “Good morning, sir, how may I help you?”
Another receptionist manned the ringing phones, ensuring someone was always available to greet arriving clients. The building spanned from 6th to 29th, filling the corner of the busy intersection much like New Yor
k’s Flatiron building. The lobby’s glass walls looked out over the hectic pace of downtown Birmingham.
“Clint Hayes,” he said. “I need a moment of Mr. Farago’s time this morning.”
The receptionist made a sad face. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Hayes, but Mr. Farago is completely booked today. May I set up something for you later in the week?”
Clint gave his head a shake. “Let him know I’m here. I trust he’ll be able to spare a minute or two.” For old time’s sake, he opted not to add.
The receptionist, Kendra, ducked her head in acquiescence. “Of course, sir. Would you like a coffee or a latte while you wait?”
“I’m good.”
While Kendra made the necessary call, Clint moved toward the wall of fame on the far side of the massive lobby. Dozens of photos of the partners attending various fundraisers and city events adorned the sleek beige wall that served as a canvas. Numerous framed accolades of the firm’s accomplishments hung proudly among the photos. Despite his best efforts, bitterness reared its ugly head. Clint rarely allowed that old prick of defeat to needle him anymore. He turned away from the reminders of what he would never have. He was only human; the occasional regression was unavoidable.
He’d done well enough for himself. His law degree had come in handy more than once in his law enforcement career. It gave him an edge in his new venture as a private investigator. If money had been his solitary goal, he would have accepted one of the far more lucrative opportunities he had been offered during his college years.
“Mr. Hayes?”
Clint grinned, then checked the expression as he turned to Kendra. “Yes.”
“Mr. Farago will see you now.” She gestured to the marble-floored corridor that disappeared into the belly of the enormous building. “Take the elevator to the fourth floor and Darrius, his assistant, will be waiting for you.”
With a nod, Clint fastened the top one of the two buttons on his jacket and followed the lady’s directions. When he reached the fourth floor the doors slid open with a soft whoosh and revealed a more intimate, but equally luxurious lobby.
Smiling broadly, a young man, twenty-two or -three, met him in the corridor. His slim-fit charcoal-gray suit had the look and style of an Italian label way above his pay grade, suggesting he either came from money or his boss handed out nice bonuses.
“Good morning, Mr. Hayes. My name is Darrius. May I get you a refreshment?”
“No thanks.” Clearly Farago’s tastes hadn’t changed. The assistant, a paralegal most likely, was young, handsome and no doubt hungry. A man did things when he was hungry he might not otherwise do. Clint knew this better than most.
“Very well. This way, sir.”
A few steps to the right and Darrius rapped on the first door to the left and then opened it. He gifted Clint with a final smile and disappeared, closing the door behind him.
Farago got to his feet and reached across his desk. “Clint, it’s been a while.” They exchanged a quick handshake.
“I hear you’re scheduled to make partner before the year is out.” Clint had nudged a few contacts last night in addition to his internet research. Farago was on his way up at this esteemed firm. Good for him. He’d done his time. Going on eight years now. Still, Clint couldn’t help wondering how far his old friend had gone this time to ensure his next step up the corporate ladder. He seriously doubted this leopard had changed his spots.
Farago gestured to the chair in front of his desk and settled back into his own. “It’s a carrot they dangle when you reach a certain level. Time will tell, I guess.”
Clint grunted an acknowledgement.
“So.” Farago leaned back in his leather chair. “What brings you to see me after all these years?”
There were many things Clint could have said—payback, for example—but he elected to keep the threats to himself. He had learned that all things come back around in time. Karma truly was a bitch.
As if Farago had read his mind, he fidgeted a bit. Clint could almost swear he saw a sheen of sweat forming on the man’s forehead.
“I have a few questions—between old friends—about your colleague, Natalie Drummond.”
Farago lifted his head and said, “Ah. I’m certain you’re aware, of course, the firm requires we sign confidentiality agreements.”
“No doubt.” Clint stared straight into his eyes. “I’m equally certain you understand I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t essential. So, why don’t we cut to the chase? I need information and you need to give it to me.”
The flush of anger climbed from the collar of Farago’s crisp white shirt and quickly spread across his face. “I see.”
“I’m glad we understand each other.” Clint had no desire to waste time or energy debating the issue.
Farago’s glare was lethal. “What is it you want to ask?”
“You’ve worked with Natalie for the past four or so years. Until her accident had she suffered any professional issues?”
A haughty chuckle and a roll of the eyes warned that whatever Farago had to say it wouldn’t be complimentary. “She had a clerkship with one of our esteemed state court justices before coming on board. Some of us had to do our time performing grunt work here at the firm, but not Natalie. The Drummond name and the recommendation of the justice ensured she started with the cream of the crop cases.” Another of those unpleasant smirks. “The rumor was, before her accident she was about to become the youngest partner in the firm.” He exhaled a big sigh. “I’ll never understand why; she wasn’t even that good.”
Clint clenched his jaw to the count of three to hold his temper, then asked, “Tell me about the cases she worked in the months leading up to her injury.”
Farago made a face. “Let’s see. The White case—a mercy killing.”
Clint remembered the one. An eighty-year-old husband allowed his dying wife to end her suffering with a bottle of the opiates prescribed by her oncologist. The video they made with the wife’s iPhone proved the key piece of evidence that turned the tide with the jury. The woman made her own choice, the only thing the husband did was open the bottle since her arthritic hands couldn’t manage the feat.
“Other than that one, there was the Thompson versus Rison Medical Center—a medical malpractice case.” Farago turned his palms up. “Those are the primary ones I recall without prowling through databases.”
Thompson was the case Clint wanted to hear about. The firm represented the medical center. “Thompson versus Rison Medical Center didn’t go down the way anyone expected. Your client was damned lucky.”
Farago shrugged. “I don’t know. Lots of people claim injuries or trouble with medical facilities or their employees; those claims aren’t always based on fact. Emotion can become the center of the case, making it doubly difficult for the defendant’s attorneys.”
“There’s no other case that comes to mind?” Clint pressed.
Farago shook his head. “As I recall, those two pretty much took up her time that year. Why all the questions about Natalie? Is she being investigated?”
Clint ignored his questions. “Her accident was a lucky break for you. You took over her spot on the legal team and the win for Rison Medical Center put you on the partners’ radar.”
Another nonchalant shrug lifted Farago’s shoulders. “The win would have put anyone involved on the partners’ radar. It was a huge lawsuit. We performed above expectations and saved our client a fortune.”
“The rumor mill had Thompson pegged as the winner until the bitter end,” Clint reminded him. Clint recalled well the day the jury returned with the verdict, he’d been damned surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time a sharp legal team had pulled a client’s fat out of the fire. Whatever his history with Farago, the man was a good attorney. He just wasn’t always a good man.
Clint retrieved a business car
d that provided his name and cell number. “Call me if you think of anything interesting to pass along on the subject.”
Farago studied the card. “You aren’t with the BPD anymore?”
Clint smiled. “I decided to come to work with my old boss in her private investigations agency. I’m sure you know Jess Harris Burnett.” He stood. “We’re taking on the cases no one else can solve.” He gestured to the door. “Which office is Natalie’s?”
The look on Farago’s face was priceless. His eyes bulged. His jaw fell slack. It was almost worth the loss of the career Farago had stolen from Clint a decade ago.
But not quite.
6:50 p.m.
NATALIE WATCHED THE man driving as they moved through the darkening streets. Dusk came a little earlier every day, reminding her that the year was barreling toward an end. It didn’t seem possible that she’d lost so much of the past twenty-four months. She didn’t want to lose any more. She wanted her life back.
“You don’t have to stay with me every minute,” she announced to the silence. Neither of them had spoken since leaving the parking garage. She’d worked well beyond the number of hours allowed by her medical release and Clint had insisted on taking her to dinner. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, the incident in my kitchen yesterday morning notwithstanding.”
Clint smiled. She liked his smile. He was quite attractive for a PI. She’d had her fair share of dealings with private investigators. Most of whom had been older and far less easy on the eyes. In addition to attractive, Clint was well educated and his instincts appeared quite good. He wasn’t the only one doing research. She’d done quite a bit herself last night after he left. Clint Hayes possessed a law degree from Samford. He’d graduated with highest honors, but then he’d turned to law enforcement. There was a story there; she just hadn’t found it yet. He dressed particularly well. The suit was no off-the-rack light wool ready-for-wear. Neither was the shirt or the shoes. When did private investigators start earning such a high salary?
“Feel free,” he glanced at her as he made the turn into the restaurant, “to say whatever is on your mind.”
