by Irene Hannon
“Yes. Isn’t it curious that a father and son would have two different last names?”
“He could be a stepson.”
“Or he changed his last name for some reason. The birth certificate you mentioned you’re waiting for should shed some light on that. To be honest, I doubt I’d have given it a second thought if we weren’t dealing with a bunch of other baffling stuff.”
He set the sheet down and tackled his own pie. “At this point, anything out of the ordinary is worth investigating.”
“I do have one other piece of information that could be relevant. I googled Lawrence Adams’s name and got a lot of hits. He was a lifelong resident of Boston, ran a small construction company that did residential developments, won a number of industry awards, and was known for his honesty and integrity. However . . . there were rumors he had financial difficulties near the end of his life.”
One side of Colin’s mouth quirked up. “If you ever want to change careers, we could use your investigative skills on the force.”
“No, thanks. My teaching job provides plenty of adrenaline.”
“Eat your pie.” He waved his spoon toward her dessert. “And tell me about these rumors.”
She scooped up a hearty bite of apple and pastry. “There were a couple of stories in the community newspaper and in the local construction industry newsletter about delays in his last development. A few vendors said bills were being paid late. Some home buyers weren’t happy about how long it was taking to build their houses. He also sold his own house, moved into a small condo, and relocated his office to less expensive real estate. I can forward you the links.”
“That would be helpful. Was Parker mentioned in any of those stories?”
“No.”
“Did the residential development get finished?”
“Yes—three weeks before Adams died. The company was subsequently closed.”
“Closed, not sold.” He set his spoon down. “There had to be some blue-sky value if he was in business for a lot of years.”
“Maybe not much after the rumors of financial instability.” Trish scraped the bottom of her dish, gathering up the last of the pie.
“Less if all the physical assets had to be sold to keep it in the black.”
“Right. But interesting as all this is, I don’t see how it could have anything to do with what’s going on here, three years later.”
“I don’t either . . . although my gut tells me there’s a connection.” He leaned back in his chair. “I may need to have another talk with Parker.”
“Won’t he be upset about you digging into his background based on nothing but instinct?”
“What you witnessed in your foyer is fact.”
Her stomach tightened. “Are you going to bring that up to him?”
“I don’t know yet. I may just tell him we’re continuing to investigate your mother’s death—unless I can think of another excuse to talk to him.”
She shifted in her seat. “I’m not comfortable with lying.”
“It’s not a lie.”
“What does that mean?”
He scooted around the small round table and leaned in close, lowering his voice. “I talked with my boss today. He’s given me the green light to dig back into the case, based on what’s been going on. I also called to see if your mother’s prescription medication might still be in the evidence locker. It is—and they’re going to hang on to it.”
“Why?”
“It may prove helpful.”
“How?”
“I don’t know—but I want it to be available if we need it.”
She pushed her empty dish aside and folded her hands on the table. “You really think foul play might have been involved in my mom’s death? That someone actually wanted her to die?”
“I think it’s a possibility. That’s why my boss also let the prosecuting attorney know we’re continuing to investigate. I expect he’ll issue a taken-under-advisement ruling, which would change the case status to open-ended and allow for the possibility that further evidence might be presented.” He covered her clenched fingers with his. “The difference is, this time you’re not the prime suspect.”
Prime suspect.
The qualifier sent a shock wave through her.
Did he consider her one of the suspects?
Apparently so, based on his next comment.
“Now that the case is open again, I’m going to need to keep a professional distance until it’s resolved. But I want you to know my long-term goal is the same . . . and I’ll continue to be a phone call away, day or night. Okay?”
Okay?
Was he kidding?
She dropped her chin and regarded his strong fingers covering hers. His warmth and caring and kindness had been her lifeline through this torrent of crises.
Now she’d have to soldier on alone.
“Hey.” He squeezed her fingers. When she looked up, his intent gaze locked on hers. “In case you’re wondering, my feelings about you . . . and us . . . haven’t changed. I intend to do my best to wrap this up and get us back on track ASAP—but I can’t date a woman who’s involved in an active case. I wanted us to have this evening together so you’d know what my intentions are once this is over, but for now I need to concentrate on finding out the truth behind your mother’s death . . . and your mugging.”
Of course he did. That was his job.
And she wanted to uncover the truth as much as he did.
The waitress came by with their check, and as soon as he paid the bill, they left.
Colin didn’t talk any more about the case on the drive back to her house or as he walked her to the door—but there was no good-night kiss . . . even on the forehead. Nor would there be until this wrapped up.
He touched her cheek, reminded her to arm the security system, then turned and walked down the path to his car.
Leaning against the doorframe, she watched him drive away—and prayed God would lead them to answers soon.
Because they could use all the help they could get figuring out the motive behind the evil things that had already happened . . . and those that might be looming in the days ahead.
14
An arc of headlights swept across the front of the house, and Craig tossed the TV remote onto the table beside him. Finally. Waiting forty-five minutes for a pizza was ridiculous.
But he was lucky anyone was willing to deliver to this god-forsaken place.
After extracting three singles from his wallet, he gave the TV an annoyed glance and crossed to the front door as the bell rang. Pizza and the idiot box—talk about a boring Saturday night. Still, he’d had his fun yesterday at that new bar he’d tried. Trixie had given his pleasure her top priority.
The corners of his mouth tipped up as he pictured the curvaceous—and friendly—redhead.
Very friendly.
Smiling, he reached for the knob. He might have to give that place a second go too. He’d visited the first bar twice without any repercussions, and . . .
“Hi, there.”
His lips flatlined. What the . . .
“Aren’t you going to ask me in? I drove a long way to see you.”
He gaped at the familiar blonde on his doorstep. What was her name again? Natasha? Naomi? Natalie. Yeah, that was it. Natalie.
But what was she doing here?
And how had she found him?
The beams from another set of headlights swept through the trees, and a surge of adrenaline goosed his pulse.
He grabbed her arm, yanked her inside, and slammed the door shut.
“Hey! Not so rough, big boy. I’m glad you’re happy to see me, but I have all evening. There’s no rush.”
Her words only half registered as he tried to wrestle his panic into submission. To think. Her car was in the driveway; the pizza kid would see it. Did that matter?
He surveyed his unexpected visitor. It might, if the kid got an eyeful of her micro skirt, low-cut blouse, dramatic makeup, and mane of
blonde hair.
“Wait in the kitchen.” He tightened his grip and propelled her toward the back of the house.
She stumbled along beside him in her four-inch heels. “Take it easy. These shoes weren’t designed for running.”
The doorbell chimed.
He pushed her through the door, closed it, and jogged back toward the front of the house. He’d have to wing it if the kid mentioned the car.
Fate was on his side, though. The teen on the porch was a new face, and he was jiving to some tune coming through his earbuds. His conversation was limited to a quick thank-you for the tip.
Perfect.
Craig watched until he returned to his car and drove away, then pivoted back toward the kitchen—and the big problem waiting there. He had a dozen questions . . . and he needed answers before he could decide how to handle this complication.
Better play along with her until he had more information, however. Otherwise, she might clam up.
Pizza in hand, he walked to the back of the house and pushed through the door.
Natalie was sitting on one of the stools at the island, legs crossed, one foot dangling, crimson nails peeking out of the open toe of a dramatic spiked-heel shoe that was more eye candy than practical. Like the dozens of other pairs he’d spied in her closet during his second visit.
“This is a surprise.” He slid the pizza onto the counter, trying for a pleasant tone.
“A happy one, I hope.” She gave him a provocative smile. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I? You said you were unattached.”
“I was just spending a quiet night in front of the TV.”
“Oh, I think we can do better than that.” She tapped the pizza box. “Are you going to share?”
“Sure. You want some beer?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t you have anything with a little more kick?”
“There’s some Scotch left.”
“Sold.”
He filled a tumbler with ice, poured her a drink, and took a beer for himself. No hard stuff for him. He needed a clear head tonight.
She helped herself to a piece of pizza as he leaned a hip against the island. “This is a deluxe, isn’t it? My favorite kind. It was almost like you knew I was coming.”
“How could I know that? I never gave you my address.” He took a pull from his beer, watching her.
“Oh, I have ways of finding addresses.” She gave a throaty laugh.
“Want to let me in on the secret?”
“Hmm. I suppose it couldn’t hurt . . . Matt.”
He choked on his beer.
She thought he was Matt?
Wait.
How did she even know about Matt?
Craig took a shallow breath, trying to mask his shock.
“My name’s Joe.”
“Funny. That’s not how your car is registered.” She scooped up some wayward cheese and piled it on her pizza.
His stomach clenched. “How do you know that?”
“Now don’t get upset, honey. A girl has to make sure she’s not being taken advantage of, you know? I needed contact information in case you didn’t call or show up at the bar again. I know how guys operate. You tend to forget promises. I couldn’t find your driver’s license or any credit cards in your wallet, so I checked the plates.”
Craig bought himself a minute by taking another slow drink of his beer. Stashing his plastic and ID in the car while he’d retrieved her jacket had paid off. But when had she gone out to get the number on his plates? They were mud-smeared . . . and he was a light sleeper. If she’d left the room, he’d have heard her.
Except . . . he’d been dead to the world for hours that night. And he didn’t remember much of what had happened after that second drink.
It was almost as if he’d been drugged.
The truth body-slammed him.
“You put something in my drink, didn’t you?”
The slice of pizza paused halfway between the counter and her mouth . . . then continued to its destination.
“You had a lot to drink.” She took a big bite.
“Not that much.”
“You might have drunk more than you remember. We had other things on our mind.” She gave him the seductive smile she’d used in the bar.
It had zero effect tonight.
“I know my limits. I didn’t drink too much.”
“Like I said, you were distracted.”
He ran through the events of the night in his mind as she ate his pizza. When had she doctored his drink? It had to have happened at her place or he wouldn’t have been able to drive them back to her apartment. But they’d been together the whole . . .
The light dawned.
“You spiked my drink while I went out to get your jacket, didn’t you?”
After a brief hesitation, she shrugged. “Like I said, a girl has to take care of herself.”
He fought back the anger churning in his gut.
Stay cool, Elliott. You need information, and you won’t get it if you yell at her.
Somehow he managed a pleasant tone. “You’re very clever.”
She chewed for a moment, studying him. “Are you mad?”
“Do I look mad?”
“No—but some guys are put out after I track them down.”
Another shock wave rippled through him.
She’d done this before. He wasn’t her first victim.
The question now was . . . what was her game? What did she want?
“I admire smart people.” He slid onto a stool beside her. “What did you use to knock me out?”
“GHB.”
Gamma-hydroxybutyrate. The date-rape drug—typically a male weapon.
How ironic.
“Like I said . . . clever.” He took a piece of pizza. “So who ran my plates for you?”
“I have connections.”
A cop in her debt, maybe—or a friend who happened to be a PI. It wouldn’t be that hard for someone with her assets to curry favors from a man.
“You know . . .” She tilted her head. “You look a lot different here than you did at the bar. More . . . refined. When you opened the door, I’m not certain I would have recognized you if I didn’t know you lived here.” She leaned closer and squinted at him. “Your eyes are even a different color. Hazel, not green.”
Natalie was too observant—and too clever—for her own good.
“I like to be incognito when I barhop.”
“Yeah.” She gave him a leisurely head-to-toe. “You’re a lot higher class than you let on at the bar. I bet you don’t want anyone to recognize you at a dump like Arnold’s.” She swung her foot back and forth. “Is Craig high-class too?”
His lungs locked, and black spots exploded in front of his eyes.
“Are you okay, sweetie?” She touched his arm.
He gripped the edge of the island. “How do you know about Craig?”
“From his credit card.” She waved a hand toward the far counter. “I noticed it while you were talking to the pizza guy. I figured he must be a friend who was visiting—unless you have a roommate.”
He bit back an oath as he scowled at the plastic card. He must have left it there after he’d gone through his IDs earlier, trying to decide what to keep and what to destroy. He should have ditched it months ago when—for all practical purposes—Craig Elliott had ceased to exist.
“No. No roommate. He’s just passing through.”
“Will he be around later?”
“No. He had . . . other plans for tonight.”
“Kind of like us, huh? My timing was spot on.” She winked at him and held out the glass for a refill. “You have a comfortable place. I’m gonna enjoy hanging out here.”
Like that was going to happen.
He topped off her drink and sat back on the stool beside her while she sipped it, his brain reeling. She knew about Matt. She knew about Craig. What else did she know—and what had prompted her to home in on him?
“You went to a lot
of effort to find me. Why?”
“I like you.”
Too simple.
“Come on, Natalie. Be honest. What are you after?”
“You. I like you. We were good together. I want more of that.”
No mention of money. No threats. No hint of blackmail. And her eyes were guileless.
Could this be on the level? Did she really just want to hang with him?
“Why me?”
“You’re different than any of the guys I’ve met for a while. I only track down the ones who are special. You stood out.”
If that was supposed to be a compliment, she’d missed the mark.
But he had to play along.
“I appreciate that—as long as our relationship stays between you and me.”
“Of course! I respect your privacy.”
What a joke. She’d already trampled all over it.
But as long as no one else knew about him, it didn’t matter.
“You mean you haven’t told anyone about me?”
“I mentioned to one of my friends at the shop that I’d met someone new, but I didn’t give her any details. I know how to be discreet.”
“What about your family?”
She snorted. “My parents threw me out the day I turned seventeen. Said I was nothing but trouble. So I got on a bus and rode till my money ran out. I never planned to stay in St. Louis, but it worked out fine here. There was no reason to leave.”
“Where do they live?”
“My folks? Phoenix, last I heard. But that was ten years ago. They could be dead for all I know—or care.”
She had no contact with her family and hadn’t told anyone his name.
That was the best news he’d had all night. Taking care of this problem would be a cinch.
The issue was when. Tonight was best, in case her lips got loose and she decided to tell one of her salon friends more than she claimed she already had. But her car was here—and he didn’t want to get within touching distance of it. Too much risk of leaving trace evidence he might not have a chance to get rid of.
Tonight was out.
He’d have to put off dealing with the dicey situation for a day or two and convince her to keep her mouth shut in the meantime.
