Elizabeth made a mental note to check David Whitcliff’s movements on that night, and find out why he didn’t tell her he was at the party. She crossed one ankle behind the other under her chair and addressed the point in hand. “Aden Falls. Or more to the point, Sunny Springs Home for the Disabled.”
“Sure. What would you like to know?”
“I’ve just been in a meeting with a journalist. Not an experience I’d like to repeat anytime soon.”
He chuckled, moved the paperweight an inch on his desk, then folded his arms and looked up again. “I don’t blame you. I try to keep out of their sights these days. Too many tar pits to fall into.”
Getting straight to the point, Elizabeth said, “She tells me I’ve authorized funding for fifteen young people in some of your…housing facilities.”
He made a dismissive face. “Is that a problem?”
“Not if I signed them. Which I didn’t.”
He dropped his gaze a fraction, frowning. “Then it must have been someone in your office.”
“There’s only me and my PA. And she didn’t sign them.”
He narrowed his eyes on her, head slightly inclined. “Are you saying that someone in my organization falsified these documents?”
“I’m not making any accusations, Ryan. I’m trying to find out who signed these documents and how these young people ended up channeled into your facilities. To do that, I need to follow the trail back. And it ends with your organization. That’s all I’m saying.”
Again, he absentmindedly reached across and shifted the file again. Elizabeth lifted her chin a little, trying to read what was written on the front. Apparently noticing that small movement, he lifted the file, opened a drawer, and stuffed it in, leaving Elizabeth feeling like some kind of peeping Tom spying on their business.
He gave her an empty smile. “The best person to talk to would be Emma Waits. She’s our admin who deals with all the legalities of funding applications.”
“So, where do I find her?”
He fixed her gaze for the longest moment, perhaps assuming Elizabeth wouldn’t actually follow through and speak to her.
Finally, in resignation, he lifted his phone, pressed a button. “I’ll have my secretary find her.”
Elizabeth waited in the outer office for several minutes before a young woman appeared. Eyeglasses, knee-length checked woolen skirt, white blouse slightly open at the throat to show a gold cross on a fine chain, flat-soled shoes—she approached Elizabeth with her hand out.
“I’m Emma Waits. Mr. Halverston tells me you wanted to talk to me about the application system.”
Taking her hand and rising to her feet, Elizabeth said, “That’s correct. If you could just walk me through your systems, I’d be grateful.”
They walked along a brightly lit hallway, eggshell blue painted walls with artwork tastefully displayed on each side. Elizabeth eyed a couple of works by local artists she found herself coveting, but snapped herself back to the task at hand when Emma paused at a doorway, indicating for her to enter, saying, “This way.”
Inside was a desk stacked with files and ledgers, papers and reports. She offered Elizabeth a seat, then rounded the desk to sit opposite her. “They say it’s a paperless world. Imagine if it weren’t.” She smiled, stacked the files directly in front of her onto another pile to her left, then turned on her computer.
“Ryan told you what I was looking for?” Elizabeth asked, a little surprised.
“Your funding application consents. Why else would you be here?” Another smile as she narrowed her focus on the screen and clicked the mouse. “Ah, here we are. I’ll print them out.”
Behind Elizabeth, a printer whirred and groaned into life. Emma got up, went to the machine, and held her hand out, ready to receive the documents as they rolled off. When the last one peeled out and the printer beeped and powered down, she returned to her desk, stacked the pages to square them off, then handed them to Elizabeth.
The top page was the application for funding for Kimmy Donohue. In a textbox at the foot of the page was the note outlining the conditions of funding, that Kimmy temporarily reside in Sunny Springs Home for the Disabled, and that all necessary funding would continue until reassessed.
Emma nodded at them. “Of course, they’re all electronically signed.”
“Yes. I sign them on my phone.”
Then she turned to the next one. The young man paralyzed with cerebral palsy—her same electronic signature—which she checked for similarity—same name, date, same condition noted below…
Elizabeth blinked at it. Check the next one—the same. And the next one.
Had she left that condition on all these applications? Was that why her clients were being sent into institutions in the Aden Falls conglomerate? A critical electronic error on her part?
An instant wave of horror crashed over her leaving her so shocked she felt ill. What the hell had she done?
Attempting to hide her rising panic, and probably failing, she gathered up the paperwork, restacking it on the desk, and smiled. “Do you mind if I keep these?”
Emma shrugged. “Not at all.”
And that’s when her phone rang—Penny.
Elizabeth excused herself and answered.
“Can you talk?” said Penny.
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve got news I think you’re going to want to hear.”
She turned a sideways glance on Emma, then stepped a short distance away with her back turned. “Give it to me.”
“I did some digging. You’re not the first hatchet job Jennifer Reels has done. Not by a long shot. Some go a ways back, but one was more recent—Gate Westrum. He was a young, up-and-coming realty broker. Young, single, good-looking. Had everything going for him.”
Another furtive glance at Emma. She was busying herself with some files, obviously trying to look disinterested.
All the same, Elizabeth cupped her hand around the mouthpiece and dropped her voice. “Wasn’t he the one that was murdered a few months back?”
“That’s the one. Found in a dumpster with his throat cut and his face pulverized. All kinds of dreadful photographs and some pretty incriminating financial documentation thrown in with him. They all indicated he’d been making deals with very unsavory characters. Apparently, he’d met them while frequenting a Boston-area nightclub called The Hyde Park Luxury Rest Stop.”
“Is that what it sounds like?”
“Not even close. Sources I found say it’s a tightly run brothel with a high-roller casino in back. The police have been trying to close it down for years.”
“A little inside info going on, you think?”
“That’s what the article inferred but didn’t go so far as saying. But, even if Gate Westrum had survived the attack on him, Jennifer Reels made damn sure he’d never have been able to show his face in this town again. But here’s the thing—are you sitting down?”
“Assume I’m sitting.”
“Gate Westrum was on last night’s party guest list.”
“Are you kidding? How could you not have known he was invited?”
At the rise in her voice, Emma looked up. Perhaps realizing her presence was no long needed, she smiled and excused herself. In response, Elizabeth gave her a tight smile and nodded, then waited for the door to close before resuming the conversation.
Penny’s voice rose in defense. “It wasn’t me who invited him. He was listed as somebody’s guest.”
“You remember who?”
“You think I wouldn’t have told you by now? All I have is the main guest list. Mister and Mrs.? Blah Blah. Then a bunch of single names. I’m sorry.”
“Okay, so we have to figure out who invited him.”
“Yeah, but here’s where it gets really weird: according to the list of attendees at your party last night, guess who managed to turn up and was living it up at your party.”
“Gate Westrum? So, either he came back from the dead, or someone else used his party in
vitation.”
“Correct.”
Elizabeth chewed her lip while she turned it over in her mind. “There has to be a connection between Gate Westrum and whatever happened out at Sunny Springs. Where are you now?” Elizabeth asked.
“I’m in the office.”
The fact that Penny’s tone had suddenly become guarded wasn’t lost on Elizabeth.
“What is it?”
A brief hesitation.
“Penny, what’s happened?”
“Breaking news on the radio…”
A black hole opened up in Elizabeth’s stomach. “Saying what?”
“Oh, dear lord. They’re saying the McClaine foundation is involved in insider trading.”
Elizabeth’s jaw dropped while the words sank in.
“What?” She drew a couple of ragged breaths, then said, “That’s ridiculous. I don’t know where they get their information, but I’m calling them right now and putting them straight. What station was that?”
“Hold on, I just switched over. Crap, it’s on at least two stations. Probably more. Hold on a sec.”
In the background, Elizabeth heard the office computer switching on. “What are you doing?”
“Checking the…uh-oh. That same story’s gone live all over the Internet.”
Elizabeth rolled her head back and drew in an infuriated breath. “Who’s behind this one? As if I need to ask.”
“You guessed it—Jennifer Reels, reporter extraordinaire.”
One side of her upper lip curled in fury. “Reporter extraordinaire, my foot. Wait till I get ahold of that woman. Next time her name gets mentioned in the papers, it’ll be in the obituaries.”
“Whatever you’re gonna do to her, you gotta promise to let me help. Oh, dammit, the switchboard’s lighting up like a Christmas tree. I’m gonna have to go.”
“Thanks, Penny. If anyone needs me, tell them to leave a message. I’ve got a reporter to put in her place.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DAY TWO—2:35 PM—LANEY
The photographer’s studio was located in a strip mall on the outskirts of Old Brooklyn. Pierre Porter Photos looked like a failing, one-room outlet with dusty props in the window and the company name in chipped gold lettering on the glass.
An overhead bell jangled as she pushed open the door, and a balding man with a greasy comb-over looked up from the newspaper he had spread out on the counter. Probably in his sixties, beer belly, wire-rimmed eyeglasses, he looked nothing like Laney had imagined. He gave her a bored look then made a point of closing the newspaper and straightening.
“Can I help you?” He didn’t sound like he wanted to help anyone.
Laney gave the place a mild once-over as she crossed to the counter. It didn’t look like the kind of place you’d go for your wedding snaps. The shop itself was small and dismal, a multi-colored bead screen covering the exit to a room at the rear. Next to him the dusty counter held an aging computer, a phone, and a pile of Manila envelopes, each with string tied over the front in a cross. Lining the walls were a series of faded photographs that looked like they’d been taken some time in the last millennium.
Laney leaned one hand on the counter, wondering if she was in the right place. “Are you Pierre Porter, the photographer?”
He dropped his chin, regarding her over the top of his glasses. “Depends who’s asking.” He drew the newspaper toward himself, folded it once, and leaned on the countertop.
She slipped the tiny photograph she’d removed from Wendy O’Dell’s file from her pocket and pushed it across the counter to him.
“Are you the one who took this?”
He picked up the photograph and tipped his head back, mouth turned down at the corners while he studied it through the grubby lenses of his glasses. Then he slid it back to her. “Like I said, who wants to know?”
“A friend of a friend.”
He snorted mildly. “Gee, that’s original.”
“Okay then, I want to know.”
He regarded her sourly. “You want answers, you’re going to have to be a little more specific.”
“A friend of mine’s gone missing. I’m looking for her. Last I knew, she had a photograph taken by you. Or at least,” she conceded, “by someone from this photo shop.”
He gestured widely. “Look around. How many photographers you think we got working here?”
She shrugged. “Then I guess it must have been you. Her name was Wendy.”
This time he raised both hands theatrically and looked heavenward. “Wendy? Wendy who? You know how many Wendys I shot over the last thirty years?” He saw the look she gave him and gave her a deadpan look. “With a camera, is what I’m saying.”
The guy was deliberately playing dumb. Laney tucked both hands in her back pockets, lips pursed, nodding around the place while she decided on a different tack.
“Okay, let’s do this another way, shall we? These little photographs—when was the last one you took?”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Last time someone came in for a passport photograph, I guess.”
“And when was that?”
The corners of his mouth turned down while he thought. “Two, maybe three days ago? As you can see, the place is so busy it’s hard to remember.”
She gave him a long, blank stare. “So, these are passport photos. Is that what you’re saying?”
“You’re pretty quick on the uptake.”
Laney ignored the comment and tapped the photo. “Did you photograph this girl?”
He lifted one corner of the snap, checked the stamp on the underside. “It’s got my name on it. I guess I must have.”
“Do you remember her?”
“How would I know? I get all kinds in here.”
“I’m not asking about all kinds. I’m asking about this girl.”
“Ah, geez. How would I know who she is? They don’t tell me their names. It’s not like they come here for the scintillating conversation or nothing. They come, they go. That’s all I know.”
She turned to the front window, noting the narrow parking lot out front, and the lack of foot traffic. “Do they come in by themselves? Or does someone bring them in here?”
The guy picked up the newspaper, folded it again, and tucked it under one arm like he was about to leave. “Listen, while I’d love to stand here and chat, I got a business to run. So, if you don’t mind…” He indicated the front door.
Laney fixed her gaze on his and squared up to him. “Fine. Thanks for all the help.”
“No problem,” he said.
They stood eyeing each other for a moment. Then she left.
Outside in the car, she sat watching the place. Between the gold lettering on the window, she could see him on the phone and glancing up every now and then. With the dark-tinted car windows, he wouldn’t have been able to see her. After about a minute of what looked like an animated conversation that included a lot of hand gestures, he hung up, shook his head angrily, and disappeared out the back.
She gave it a second then jumped out of the car and trotted straight to the door. Again, the bell jangled as she pushed her way in. This time, she made straight for the phone and lifted it. By the time he appeared through the beaded screen and registered what she was doing, it was too late. She’d already lifted the phone, hit redial, and noted down the number that popped up on the screen.
“Hey!” he said and scrabbled to get to her. “Hey, hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
He snatched at the note with one fat hand and missed. “Hey, gimme that.”
“Thanks again for the help,” she told him, pocketing the note as she scurried for the door. Behind her he’d already rounded the counter, coming after her. She threw open the door and bolted for the parking lot. It wasn’t until she got back to the car that she chanced a look back. He was standing at the door glaring after her.
She got in, twisted the key in the ignition, and started it up while he retreated inside and shut the door.
Whoever he’d dialed was about to get another phone call from him. That didn’t matter. All she had to do was wait. Sooner or later, he’d leave.
And she’d be right behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DAY TWO—2:49 PM—ELIZABETH
It took a matter of seconds for Elizabeth to hit the redial on her phone and find Jennifer Reels’s number. Which was also how long it took for the woman to pick up. Elizabeth suspected she’d been waiting for the call. The tone confirmed that, along with the fact that Ms. Reels was not only more than happy to meet with Elizabeth, big surprise, she could do it right away.
Twenty minutes later, she walked into the same café they’d met at not two hours earlier to find Jennifer Reels sitting in the same seat with the same shark-like grin on her face. Elizabeth couldn’t wait to wipe that smug look off the woman’s face with the news she’d be consulting her lawyer.
As Elizabeth approached, Jennifer one-handedly wrenched out the chair alongside her.
“Mrs. McClaine, nice to see you again.”
Elizabeth deliberately took the chair opposite and sat with her back ramrod straight and her features tight.
“Ms. Reels. I want to know what grounds you have for accusing my foundation of insider trading. And don’t bullshit me. I have other ways to find out. I’m simply giving you the courtesy of telling me first, before I consult my lawyer to discuss what charges to lay against you.”
The woman sat back with a look of mild surprise before one side of her mouth curled into a snide smile.
“Whoa, Mrs. McClaine. You sound unhappy.”
“Don’t come at me with that holier-than-thou crap. I have no idea where you got the idea I or anyone at my foundation has been involved in insider trading, but it’s as far from the truth as you could get, and I expect a full retraction in your sordid rag tomorrow morning.”
“Or…?”
The woman was baiting her. Elizabeth wanted to slap that smug look off her face. Instead, she said, “Or I promise you, I will be taking legal action.”
Far from backing down, Jennifer Reels’s grin widened. “Ah but, Methinks thou dost protest too much, Mrs. McClaine.”
[Elizabeth McClaine 03.0] A Stolen Woman Page 12
