by Justine Davis, Amy J. Fetzer, Katherine Garbera, Meredith Fletcher, Catherine Mann
“I think we’ve had enough excitement for the day, wouldn’t you say?” Kel said into the silence.
Darcy nodded. Kel went back for the bag of prizes, insisting it would just end the evening on a sour note without them.
Jack just stood there, staring after the man.
“That was rude, Jack.”
His gaze snapped back to her. “Who is this guy?”
“A client, and a photographer.”
“And?”
“And nothing, Jack. I just met him.”
“And you’re dating him? With Charlie?”
Why did that sound so bad? Was it because of all the times he’d asked her out and she’d refused? Yet she let him into her home, let him know things about her most people never did.
“It’s just a night out, nothing more.” She frowned harder. “You’re jealous.” It almost choked her.
He looked away, then back at her, not admitting a thing. Did she want him to? A little voice in her head said, yes, be jealous, be my champion, take some of these burdens. But she couldn’t and knew she could handle them herself. She was just so tired of doing it all alone.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “This isn’t a place I’d expect you to be.”
“It’s not, without good reason.” His gaze landed pointedly on Charlie, and he moved in, moved close. Darcy felt swept away by his nearness. There was so much strength there, she thought. So much quiet nobility. Didn’t anyone else see it?
Then he said, “I volunteered to help the police keep order.”
Darcy felt an instant of panic, then settled. Jack was tightly linked to the police. He hunted their bail jumpers for the court, but in the same instance that brought concern that he’d reveal something about her, she dismissed it. Jack didn’t tell anyone anything about himself; he wouldn’t betray her. Would he?
He must have noticed her alarm because he laid a hand on her arm. “What’s wrong, Piper?”
“Nothing,” she said, hugging her son.
His look went deeper. “There’ll come a day when you’ll have to trust me, and stop running from it.”
Just then Kel walked up with the pack. Darcy barely glanced his way, then looked back at Jack. He was already melting into the crowd.
For a second, she wanted to go after him, but didn’t know what she’d say. Or why. Why did the man always leave her so confused? Right now she would trade all her secrets to just share one honest moment with him.
Too dangerous, she thought, and she left with Kel.
Charlie was sound asleep in the back seat before they left the parking lot. They didn’t say much as he drove toward her place. She’d considered having him drop her off at the shop where he’d picked them up, so he wouldn’t know where she lived, but he could ask a couple questions and learn that too easily. Short of living in a cave in the hills, Darcy could only hide so deep.
Darcy glanced back at her son slumped in his car seat. His face was still sticky, his lips purple from the last snow cone. His head was squashing a cheap Velveteen rabbit. “I was so scared,” she blurted. “He’s everything to me.”
He patted her hand. “I know, Piper, I know.” After a moment he asked, “So do I have to get my hair cut so you’ll go out with me again?”
“No. But a pedicure would hedge your bet,” she said, trying to lighten her own mood.
He frowned. “Very unmanly. And I wouldn’t want to spoil my image with the public display of my ugly feet.”
Darcy was still laughing when they reached her house. Leaving Kel on the porch, she slipped inside to put Charlie in his bed. When she came out, Kel was standing in the foyer. She frowned at him, and he immediately stepped back out of the house to the porch.
“Nice place.”
“Thank you.” Darcy pulled the door closed behind her, leaning back against the frame. She wasn’t inviting him in. It might be rude, but her house was her sanctuary from her business, her fears. Her thoughts jumped to Jack, the deadly look he’d given Kel, the questions.
The man was too hard to figure out.
“I had a nice time,” she said.
“So did I. Maybe next time we can go out alone?”
“Gee, and here I thought it was Charlie you were dating tonight?”
He looked endearingly bashful just then. “Bit overexcited, was I?”
“It was cute.”
“Ah, now I’m making points.”
“You’re keeping a score?”
“If one doesn’t know the level he wishes to reach, then one can’t strive to achieve it.”
Darcy laughed. Very Winston Churchill, she thought. “And what is it that you wanted to achieve?”
“To get to know you.” He moved closer, crowding her a little. “And to taste that mouth.”
“You promised we’d keep it light, remember?”
“I promise.” Still, he grinned.
Then he slid his arm around her waist and tugged her gently against his length as he tipped his head.
“Kel?”
“Yes?”
Darcy felt her insides go soft and liquid at the tender look in his eyes. “This is not light.”
“No, this is just a kiss.”
His mouth lay over hers, soft and molding. Noting aggressive, but simply an…introduction. It was gloriously patient and romantic. Nothing like the raw, consuming energy she’d shared just inches from Jack.
At the thought of the bounty hunter, Darcy broke the kiss and Kel stepped back as if it had been his choice, not hers.
He blew out a breath, looking her over. “’Night.” He spun away, and trotted down the steps.
Darcy went inside and leaned back against the closed door, wondering what kind of woman she was if she could have thoughts of Jack Turner while she was kissing another man on the front porch.
She wasn’t a hypocrite.
But right now, she felt as if she were betraying some part of herself.
By the next evening, her brain was fried and she was burning a candle at both ends and wishing she had two more to light. Between searching for information on Porche and something on surrogates, she was exhausted.
Radio ads she couldn’t track; TV was pointless since surrogates were not the norm then. Her only option was print media. She was about to call it quits for the night when she pulled up a library archive of a newspaper in west Arizona, close enough to Athena Academy to alert her. The Mesa Centennial. Never heard of the paper, but that didn’t mean much. She’d read twenty-year-old ads from every print media in three states. The ad read simply. Surrogate mother wanted. 50K, expenses paid. Must sign contract. There was a number and she tried it. No such listing, a recording said.
The name reference to the ad was not listed.
Probably paid for in cash and mailed. Anonymous.
She decided to place her own in several newspapers in the surrounding area, asking for information on surrogates. Hers read just as simply, specifying dates, yet offered a money reward up-front. She’d know what to ask if anyone answered just to make a buck off it.
That done, she sent an e-mail to the Cassandras, giving them a progress report, then focused on Porche.
By now, Darcy knew the woman’s statistics inside out. She’d even found a copy of her yearbook, which had her signature, Patty Fogerty, scanned under her picture.
Darcy needed an expert to compare all the signatures that were signed at different times, and when she mention it to Megan, her pal said she took a yoga class with a woman who analyzed handwriting. At first Darcy had thought it was like palm reading till Megan insisted her friend worked for the police department.
Which made her very credible.
Megan had begged a favor from Loni Marks and Darcy would meet with the woman as soon as she had more tangible evidence for her to do a comparison. Darcy needed to compare the past and most recent signatures. The dates were what really mattered to Darcy. Porche Fairchild had signed a document authorizing the loan of funding for a production. That’s
what she had found in Maurice’s office. Although the film had gone into production three weeks after Porche was last seen, her signature had been required before that, when the money was transferred. The day after Maurice had come home hugging his briefcase. The signatures should all match, and Darcy was relying a lot on a hunch that they wouldn’t.
If they did match, then she was out of luck. It meant Porche had been alive when the documents were signed. Though Darcy didn’t want anyone to be dead, non-matching signatures would tell her that Maurice forged the papers. That would turn suspicion on someone at the bank where the draft was issued. Thirty-five million was a big chunk of change to let go without a lot of verification. Who had Maurice forced to do that, and how?
She tried again to reach Porche’s assistant, and after persistent calls she finally got Marianna Vasquez on the line.
Darcy introduced herself as she had on the message she’d left, as a reporter doing a story for Money Market magazine about Ms. Fairchild and her sudden and now longtime absence from the financial world.
“Why now? She’s been gone three years. It is because she was mentioned on the news last week?”
“Partly. It’s a follow-up. We did do a story three months after she left for Europe, but no one in the England, France or Germany offices had seen or heard from her.”
“I don’t know what I can tell you. Ms Fairchild just…left the country. I mean, she didn’t even come into the office, only left a note and final instructions for closing up.”
“And the note said?”
“Aside from the instructions about turning off the utilities, it said that she was leaving, that the last loan was complete and that Maurice Steele had everything he needed to finalize the production money from the bank. All Porche had to do was sign the final draft. And she did.”
Darcy’s heart dropped with her spirits. “You’re certain of it?”
“Well I’m looking at it now. When you left a message last time, I brought the file to the office.”
“Can you fax it to me?” Darcy switched on the fax and gave her the number. “What was her behavior before she left?” she asked when she came back on the line.
“Agitated and angry. She didn’t get mad often, but someone was upsetting her.”
“Do you have any idea who?”
“No. She was working five deals at once. Always was. But that wasn’t unusual. She was a workaholic.”
That played against Porche’s closing up shop and heading to Europe, Darcy thought. Had Maurice paid the loan back, and if so, how? Where was Porche’s share going? Tax wise, he had to put it somewhere. Probably into an account he never touched to cover his tracks.
“My magazine’s theory is that she didn’t leave on her own power.”
Marianna’s voice lowered. “What are you saying?”
“Foul play.”
Marianna’s pitch rose with her excitement. “See, the police didn’t investigate very much because she left that note saying she was leaving for Europe and put her entire business on hold. I wasn’t happy about it because I’ve got a kid and needed my job.”
“What did you do?”
“I told the police that she wouldn’t have left like that. She lived for her work. The woman loved numbers more than anyone I know.”
“But my records show they didn’t file a report.”
“No, they didn’t.” Her tone slid into bitterness. “They accepted the note, and did investigate, but since her house was already listed for sale with a real-estate broker, plus her household goods and car were in storage, they figured she was doing just as she said. The police said she got on a private jet for Europe.”
Could Porche have already decided to take a long vacation, or move, and the timing had been just right?
Damn. This was not looking good. “But did she get off the jet?”
“I don’t know. I guess they confirmed that. Wouldn’t they?”
“Yes, they would. But if all evidence points to her wanting some time alone, then why pursue further?” People were allowed to disappear.
“Because this is just not like her.”
“I’m inclined to believe that odd behavior for someone who was so analytical is cause for question,” Darcy said.
“Yeah, ditto.”
Darcy glanced at her notes. “Had she mentioned closing her business to you before?”
“No, she hadn’t. That’s what struck me as so strange.”
“Where did she go the night before she left?”
“She didn’t say, but there was that deal with Steele.”
“What did she think of Maurice Steele?”
Marianna’s voice lowered. “She didn’t care for him. She dealt with him because he paid through the nose in finance fees. See, the film had to show a profit on the first day, because that was where her cut came from. Pay the talent and the actual making of the film with the loan, and from the box-office sales, pay the finance charge, which was Porche’s money, then the loan and get your share. So the pressure was on him. The rates would jump if the box-office sales didn’t bring in enough to pay out early.”
“Sounds like loan sharking.”
“Yeah, doesn’t it?” Marianna snickered. “But it’s all legal. Steele cofinanced half himself, so that put him in deeper. Film companies only want the money for a year or so, for filming and production, till the release date. So short-term, high-interest loans are best. By reputation, Steele’s films pay off in the first few weeks. But the last couple had pulled only a few million, which in this day is a bomb. The lead actor wasn’t the public’s version of an action star, either. So, for the rest of the money, I’d say half, Steele had to come to Porche. Getting the money was his job.”
Darcy knew that. Maurice had used his stellar reputation to back films that were destined for late-night television, and she remembered him losing money on a couple and how agitated it had made him.
The fax finally printed and Darcy snatched it up. “Tell me one thing. Has Miss Fairchild contacted you at all in the last three years?”
“No. But she paid me my last month’s pay and a decent severance bonus. I guess she forgot about the deal we’d made that if she went out of business, I’d be the first she’d sell it to.”
“She didn’t offer?”
“No, not that I could have afforded to buy her out, anyway.”
“Miss Vasquez, could you fax me some information, some of her papers?”
“I don’t know….”
“I think you might be on to something about her disappearance.” Make her feel like the hero, Darcy thought. Because she just might be. “I can’t find anyone who has laid eyes on her—and I’ve got great resources.”
“Listen, Ms. Daniels. I liked Porche, she was bright, and sharp and she had a great sense of humor. She was good to me, very good. I’d like to see her again, and if what you’re saying is true, that means someone hurt her.”
“Yes, that’s a very viable possibility.”
There was a stretch of silence, then, “Thank God someone thinks so.” Darcy heard the long, tired breath through the phone. “No one believed me, and just because she worked in the Hollywood crowd, they cast her sudden disappearance off as movie weirdness. Not me. This woman spent Christmas with me and my little girl.” Her voice fractured and Darcy realized that Marianna loved Porche. “We were close.”
How close she wasn’t going to get into now.
“I’m going to send you that last file by fax,” Marianna said. “You can call me later. Since the police didn’t suspect foul play, I have a lot of her papers. But I really have to get off the phone and go back to work. This boss isn’t nearly as sympathetic as Porche was.”
“Thank you, I understand. And, Ms. Vasquez?”
“Yes?”
“Keep this to yourself. We don’t want to tip our hand to anyone.”
“You got it.”
Darcy hung up, relaxing back in the chair as the fax spit out pages of old contracts. It would take her
a couple days to go through them. But she would.
How exactly she was going to present this to the authorities without putting herself in danger or losing Charlie was still a mystery. A parental kidnapper didn’t have much clout.
She rubbed her face, her mind crowded with too many thoughts and concerns. Her unlisted cell phone rang and she looked around, trying to remember where she’d left it. She made a dive for her purse and hit send.
The voice on the other end was low and scratchy, as if too much drinking and smoking had worn out the vocal cords. Yet when the man spoke, Darcy’s heart dropped.
“You the one looking for stuff on a surrogate?”
Chapter 9
This has to be the sleaziest place in town, Darcy thought, stepping into the Match Lite Bar on the edge of Phoenix, Arizona. Far outside the edge. And from the looks of the clientele, the local gene pool needed a filter. Or at least some bleach.
Dressed in faded, worn, low-riding jeans and a red top that revealed just enough flesh to distract, Darcy popped gum in her mouth and walked deeper into the dimly lit bar. The bartender spotted her and, leaving the customer he was chatting with, he moved down toward her.
He was bald, beefy, looked sorta like Mr. Clean, and had forgotten to use a razor this morning. He gave her the once-over, a little grin showing his approval, and she returned the stare.
“What’ll you have, sweet thing?”
“Bourbon, neat.”
That seemed to please him and when he brought it back, she leaned over, showing enough breast to keep him interested, and said, “I’m looking for Tony Feeley.”
“Touchy?”
Touchy Feeley? Good God. That was a name? “Yeah.” Tony Feeley was supposed to meet her outside the Match Lite. When he hadn’t shown, the roughnecks on the street forced her inside.
“You one of his girls?”
She frowned, sipping the liquor. “I have better taste than that.”
“Then what’s a pretty little thing like you want with that pimp?”
Great, she thought, keeping her features impassive. The man that had answered her ad for information on surrogates, saying all the right things, pandered women. Her fingers tightened on the glass.
