She cast him a sidelong look. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
He stared at the road, more than a little surprised at the apology, but not wanting to overreact.
“Your suitcase is in the back,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Hungry?”
“I ate with the girls at Dignity House. It was Cammie’s going-away party. There was a cake, too, but I wouldn’t have eaten any even if I’d stayed. Did you know refined sugar is sometimes filtered through bone char?”
“No, I didn’t.” She hadn’t spoken that many words to him in the past twenty-four hours. “It was a going-away party?”
“Yeah, she’s finished her community-service hours, but she told them she’s coming back. Daearen said that Cammie coming back means the girl planet will thrive, but I didn’t know what she was talking about.”
Just like Cammie to not give up on people. Yesterday, she wasn’t giving up on him, either, until he’d forced the issue. In the hours since, he’d had the uncomfortable realization that he dealt much better with people in a courtroom, where everyone was at arm’s length, than with those in his personal life.
“They have satellite radio in this rental,” he said. “Want to find a station you like?”
“Sure.”
Emily selected a station playing a rapid-fire song with eerie guitar chugs. For once, he recognized the music.
“I love this band,” she said, her head bobbing in time to the beat.
“Me, too. Green Day.”
“This is one of my favorite songs. ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams.’”
They were talking. She was sharing a piece of her world. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad part-time dad, after all.
“Green Day,” he said. “I never really thought about it, but did they name themselves that because they’re eco-activists?”
She gave him a funny look. “It stands for a day of smoking weed. You know? A green day. But they’re also an eco-friendly rock band. Like, they’re really big on alternative fuel sources.”
The words smoking weed stuck in his head. He’d never had a talk about drugs with her, but now wasn’t the best time. Better to enjoy rebuilding a rapport with his daughter—after all, they only had a few more days together before she returned to her mom.
He listened to the vaguely familiar lyrics about walking alone. It seemed to foretell his future. He was alone, walking alone. Living alone in his big, empty house.
“This is a political song,” Emily continued, “about the alienation of the people by the government. And by the way, I don’t smoke marijuana, in case you’re curious.”
For a moment, he was dumbfounded at the out-of-left-field admission, but glad nonetheless.
“But I suppose,” she continued, moving slightly to the music, “if I knew it were grown without chemicals, I might try it.”
Gladness was really overrated.
“Well,” he said, minding his words, “I can only request that you refrain from ingesting mind-altering pharmaceuticals, legal or otherwise, unless they’ve been prescribed by a physician. But if you were to experiment, please practice restraint and moderation.”
“In other words, don’t do drugs.”
“Right.”
“Daddy, are you okay?”
Daddy.
He had to grip the wheel and blink to keep the road in focus. Ever since his daughter had gotten into the car, he’d been on a roller coaster of emotions, definitely not his style.
And now she’d called him Daddy.
He shoved down the feelings that roiled up within him, half inclined to say, “Hey, Em, why were you holding back?” but he didn’t want to put her on the defensive.
Instead, he took a quiet moment to calm down, hold the word daddy close. He wanted to remember the sound of her voice, the overhead slate clouds, even the pop-rock tune blasting in the car. So many times these past few years, he’d hated the world for dropping him from the family equation and putting a minus in the father column.
But at this instant, he was 100 percent Emily’s father. No part-time about it.
“Daddy?” she repeated.
He cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”
“Is it about Cammie?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.
“Maybe you two could talk and work things out.”
“Too much has happened. Let’s leave it at that.”
Even if they tried, he feared he’d grow to resent her for what she’d done, and she’d inevitably grow angry and bitter with him for his resentments. He’d seen it happen over and over in legal cases he’d represented. He’d lived it, too, in his former marriage.
She twisted a dial, turning down the volume.
“I want to tell you something,” she said softly.
“I’m all ears.”
“Over dinner, Cammie explained to us that part of the reason she forced her arrest was to protect your license. She said that if you’d been arrested, the Attorney Disciplinary Agency would’ve found out within days because they’re watching you so carefully right now.” She paused. “She did it for you, Dad. Will you think things over? Please? She took the legal bullet for you.”
After a beat, he said, “I’ll think things over, but let’s give it a rest, okay?”
“Sorry, can’t give it a rest yet. What will she do next?”
“She’s creative and smart. She’ll figure out something.”
“But she lost her dream.”
He listened to the muffled grind of tires against asphalt as they traveled a few feet, another mile. He thought about his life moving forward over time, the minutes becoming hours, then days, then years, and wondered when, if ever, he’d stop thinking about Cammie, curious if she’d ever found a satisfying career, wondering if she were happy...and sometimes, when his defenses were down, pondering what the two of them could have been.
Emily turned up the volume, and they drove in silence, listening to the “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.”
* * *
FOUR DAYS LATER, Val and Cammie sat in Uncle Frankie’s living room. It was the second time Val had visited since Cammie had left the Cave.
“If we’re gonna be Sherlock and Watson, we have gotta start getting together and planning our detective venture.”
Although Cammie had accepted she’d lost her shot at being a P.I. again—a view that Val didn’t share—she enjoyed coaching her friend on the skills, tools and techniques necessary to run an investigations business. Today they’d been reviewing different smartphone apps that came in handy in investigations, from the motion detector to the digital recorder.
“Snooper, the way I see it,” Val said, lounging on the couch and fiddling with her smartphone, “you can be the office manager. Not officially a P.I., but you can do things like pull online court records, conduct criminal background checks, that sort of stuff.” She fingered a broad green leaf of a plant on the end table behind her head. “This a rubber plant?”
“Think so.”
“Needs some water.”
Val headed to the kitchen, tossing her Havana straw hat with the paisley headband on the dining room table.
In her everyday life, Val Leroy didn’t look anything like the Christina Aguilera celebrity dealer at the Shamrock Palace. The real Val had a thing for hats. And little black dresses. Today she swore a sleeveless number that showed off a small fleur-de-lis tattoo on her left shoulder—“For N’awlins and my favorite team, the Saints.” She’d be devoid of color if it wasn’t for her bobbed red hair and ruby-red lips.
“Noticin’ my dress?” Val asked, walking back in with a measuring cup half-filled with water. “It’s crepe de chine.”
As far as Cammie was concerned, crepe de chine could be crêpe suzette. “
It’s nice. New?”
“I never buy new, girl. Bought this from The Attic, that cute little vintage shop downtown. Nanny always bought me reach-me-down clothes—ya know, secondhand clothes—and I detested them. I swore I’d always buy spanking-new duds, right off the rack, when I grew up. That day came and guess what? I hated how scratchy they felt against my skin.” She carefully poured the water into the clay container. “Started going to vintage clothing stores and liking the softness of reach-me-downs again. Plus it’s like slippin’ into other people’s lives, ya know?”
“A definite skill for a private investigator.” Cammie thought for a moment. “Val, I have to be very careful about the type of work I’d do with you. Without a license, I can never appear to be working as a private investigator, ever.”
Val blinked her mink-brown eyes. “Maybe we could get an office in a law firm, and they’d hire you as a part-time paralegal. They do a lot of things private-eye-like, right?”
Cammie nodded. “Exactly the kind of tasks you mentioned, actually.”
“Well, there you have it.” Val sashayed into the kitchen with the empty measuring cup.
Although it gave Cammie leg cramps just thinking of sitting behind a desk for hours, being a quasi P.I. was better than not being one at all.
“Plus you’ll be mentoring me,” Val continued as she returned. “Teaching me things like how to do surveillance. Of course, you can’t just talk to me about it or make me read a book on the subject, I’ll need hands-on experience. Which means I’ll need you to sit with me while we’re out there watching people and taking pictures.”
Cammie smiled. “I like the way you think.”
Ding-dong.
Val looked at the front door. “You expectin’ company?”
“No.” Frankie and Delilah had left that morning on a weeklong trip to San Francisco and the wine country. “Maybe it’s a delivery.”
“Or maybe it’s lawyer boy.”
Just the thought of seeing Marc again made Cammie’s heart race. As much as she told herself that it was over between them, her body was having trouble understanding.
“Lawyer boy is in Denver,” she said, heading to the front window, “prepping for his deposition tomorrow.”
“That means you’re going to be there, too. At the deposition.”
“Not now, not after what happened.” She peeked between the slats in the blind.
She felt as though her racing heart screeched to a cold stop.
On the porch stood Laura McDonald.
Stepping away from the window, Cammie held her finger to her lips.
Val, her eyes wide, nodded that she understood to keep quiet.
As the doorbell rang again, Cammie tip-toed over to her friend.
“Gwen—that woman I told you about—is here,” she whispered. “Go to my bedroom.”
“You’re gonna answer the door?” Val whispered fiercely, her eyes wide as coasters. “That girl’s missing a few bulbs in her chandelier—”
“Hush. Nothing’s going to happen on the porch.”
“Don’t let her inside.”
“If something goes wrong, I’ll yell Tolstoy and you grab that bat I keep next to my bed and get your behind out here.”
“Who’s Tolstoy?”
“Go,” Cammie ordered in a hushed tone, tugging her smartphone from the pocket in her jeans. She pulled up the recorder app, checked the settings and turned it on.
She watched Val slip into the bedroom. Crossing to the door, Cammie stuck the phone in her jean pocket.
Easing in a calming breath, she opened the door.
Laura looked as though she’d had a Fortune 500 makeover. She wore a camel-hair jacket over a pristine white turtleneck, and tan slacks with creases so sharp, a person could get cut on them.
“Cammie,” she said in a voice that matched the look. “I behaved badly the other day. Will you accept my apology?”
The air suddenly felt thin, as though Laura had sucked all the reality out of it.
Cammie eyed the red Viper in the driveway. No one was in it. She scanned the area. Except for Mrs. Osborne checking her mailbox across the street, nobody else was in the vicinity.
She turned her attention back to Laura. “How’d you know I’m living in Vegas?”
“Researched your name on the internet, saw you had a P.I. business here in Vegas, but when I called the number it was disconnected. Then I remembered your uncle Frankie calling the law firm in Denver, and it was easy to find Frank Copello’s address, but not his phone number.”
“It’s unlisted.”
Laura nodded, her diamond-stud earrings twinkling in the light. “I thought I’d drop by, ask him how to reach you, but here you are.” Her smile was a parody of warmth.
“So you drove all the way from San Clemente just to apologize?”
“Actually, I have clients in Vegas.”
Clients? As in other people to rip off? “And a deposition in Denver tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she said, with an almost imperceptible twitch of an eyebrow, “I do. After my meeting, I’m driving there.”
“Long drive to do alone.”
She shrugged. “Eleven hours. I’ll stop halfway and spend the night. I’ve done it many times.”
Cammie wondered what those many times were about as her gaze dropped to the plush leather shoes, up to the black leather bag embellished with Prada in gold letters. Cammie wasn’t a shopper, but even she knew that purse alone would cost at least a week of a P.I.’s salary.
“You’re probably wondering what kind of business I’m in.”
Cammie met her eyes. “Got me there.”
A bank of clouds moved over the sun, casting the street in shadow. The gloom added to the sour premonition in Cammie’s stomach.
“My business is another reason I wanted to talk to you. May I come in?”
“You carrying?”
“No.”
“Although I’m just thrilled to pieces to see you again, we share a certain history. May I see inside your Prada?”
Laura started to open it herself, then changed her mind and handed it to Cammie. “I have nothing to hide.”
I bet. She opened it, rifled through several tubes of makeup, a leather-covered checkbook, keys, a shiny gold iPhone case. Not a lived-in purse like Cammie’s, whose layers of odds and ends were like an archeological dig of her life. In contrast, Laura’s handbag was like a showcase. A little too perfect, a little too staged.
“Open your coat, please.” Cammie handed back the bag.
She did, accompanied by a hurt, almost bewildered look in her eyes.
What an actress.
Cammie reached over and patted under Laura’s arms, along her sides, down the small of her back. All she felt were expensive fabrics.
“Come in,” Cammie said, stepping aside.
She followed Laura inside—she’d learned the hard way to never walk in front of this woman—and observed how she surveyed the room as she strolled inside.
“It’s how I imagined it’d be decorated,” Laura said, turning to her.
“Early Saint Christopher?”
She pulled back her lips, exposing pearly white teeth. “I was going to say comfortable, family-like.” She blinked, obviously waiting for something.
“Care to sit down?” This new version of Gwen-Laura was eerily polite and businesslike, although Cammie had already put together that the woman was cagey-smart.
“Thank you,” Laura murmured, selecting a seat at the end of the couch where Val had been sitting minutes earlier.
Cammie sat a few feet down from her, close enough for her recorder to capture their conversation.
“Let’s skip to why I wanted to see you,” Laura said.
“Let’s
.”
“I know from my internet research that you got into some trouble recently. Seems you got caught attaching a GPS device to a vehicle.”
Probably the same article Marc read, but Cammie didn’t feel like chatting about it. She nodded, once.
“I checked the licensing commission website and saw that your Nevada P.I. license has since been suspended.”
Cammie nodded again. Never again would she tag a Mall Queen type as being dumb.
“Where does that leave you, workwise?” Laura asked pleasantly. “Are you a full-time process server or do you have a job?”
“Let’s just say I’m looking.”
Laura leaned forward slightly. “Given your tenacity, skills and intelligence, we have a business proposition for you.”
She smelled something that might be helpful to Marc. “Who’s we?”
“My business partner and I.”
“Business partner as in boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Same boyfriend you had while engaged to Marc?”
She smiled.
“What’s the business proposition?”
“We need someone like you full-time in Vegas to work with clients, handle wholesale distribution and accounts receivable.”
“What’s the business?”
“In a minute. Have you ever worked with bookkeeping software?”
“Like the kind you used at Marc’s firm?”
“Not quite. It actually runs in the background.”
“Is this background accounting software what you used to cook the books at Hamilton and Hamilton?”
That smile again. Laura reached over with both hands and gently ran her fingertips along Cammie’s hips. Touching the smartphone in her pocket, she locked her gaze with Cammie’s while reaching inside her pocket. She was so close, Cammie could smell her spicy perfume, count every laugh line around her peach-glossed lips, although she doubted laughing was how she got them.
“I like you, Cammie,” she murmured huskily, pulling out the phone, her free hand lingering on Cammie’s other hip, “but trying to use your smartphone a second time to catch me is a little, oh, redundant, don’t you think?”
The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) Page 24
