Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel

by Irene Hannon

  “Yeah.”

  “Were they members of his congregation?”

  “Based on what the secretary said yesterday about the church being very modest in size and wealth, my guess is no. But I plan to check that out.”

  She rubbed her temple as she processed this new information. “Okay. So . . . maybe he befriended other people when he was visiting members of his own congregation in the nursing homes? Maybe they were impressed with his work and decided to leave a lot of their money to his organization? He’s a very charismatic man.”

  “That’s possible. But why two a year? Doesn’t that regular infusion of capital seem a little too convenient?”

  A shiver snaked through her at the sinister implication of his questions. “This is creeping me out.”

  Cal gestured at the mess on his garage floor. “Not too creeped out to tackle this, I hope.”

  “No. It actually gives me more of an incentive.”

  He snapped on his other glove. “Why don’t you start on one side and I’ll start on the other? We’ll work toward each other.”

  “What exactly are we looking for?” She followed him over to the jumbled pile.

  “Anything that gives us useful insight into the doctor’s life or raises a red flag of any kind.”

  “Okay.” She took a swig of her soda, set it on a nearby shelf beside a half-empty bag of birdseed, and dived in.

  They worked in silence for several minutes, until she extracted an empty bottle of brandy.

  “Is this relevant?”

  Cal looked over. “Find any other evidence of alcohol?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. Liquor doesn’t appear to be one of their vices. Probably not that important.”

  They went back to work, exchanging occasional comments as they sorted through the mess.

  “This is interesting.” Cal sat back on his heels.

  Moira checked out the badly scratched patent-leather shoe he’d extracted from a grocery bag. The kind guys wore with tuxes.

  Her pulse quickened. “That’s suspicious.”

  “No kidding.” Cal pulled its mate out of the bag. That one was in perfect condition. “I doubt this kind of damage was done at the Opera Theatre benefit.”

  “Maybe he wore it again after that, and damaged it then. I mean, why would he wait this long to throw it away if he scratched it at the Opera Theatre event? That was a month ago.” Moira straightened up, rubbing her lower back. “And what does all this have to do with the woman I saw on the road?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll find some answers in the paper stuff.” He riffled through the few remaining items on the ground between them, gathered them up, and tossed them into a trash can. “Let me set up a folding table and some lawn chairs. That will be easier on our backs.”

  Another thoughtful gesture. And more proof of the man’s keen observation skills.

  Five minutes later, a pile of paper between them, they took seats across from each other and plunged into the jumble that included junk mail, scribbled notes, statements, and receipts, many of the documents stained and ripped.

  This time Moira grabbed the golden ring.

  “I think I’ve got something.” She held up several cash register receipts that had been torn in half. “There are a bunch of these, all credit-card purchases. Blaine must do what I do—collect them, match them against the monthly statement, and then pitch them.”

  “That could be a gold mine. Let’s piece them together and see what we have.”

  He stood, picked up his chair, and circled the table to sit next to her. Close enough for their shoulders to touch whenever he leaned over to shuffle through the pile of receipts to search for a match to the half in his hand.

  Focus, Moira!

  “Look at this.” Cal laid a receipt on the table and smoothed it out.

  She peered at the hard-to-read type, some of it obscured with a brown, coffee-like stain. Super Clean, Inc.

  “Is that a dry cleaner?”

  “Nope. They do car detailing. And from the amount, I’d say Blaine went the whole nine yards. Check out the date.”

  She scanned it again.

  April 16.

  On the day after the Opera Theatre benefit, Blaine had paid a hefty sum to have his car cleaned to the nth degree. As if he’d driven through mud somewhere.

  Like out in the country.

  “This is looking more and more suspicious, isn’t it?” She glanced at Cal.

  “Very. Let’s match up the rest of these.”

  She made the next find as she pieced together a receipt from Home Depot.

  “I’ve got a purchase of some kind of boots, coveralls, and work gloves—three days before the benefit.”

  Cal scanned the receipt. “The doctor doesn’t strike me as the type who would normally do physical labor.” He put that receipt on top of the one for the car detailing.

  Ten minutes later, as Moira fitted together the last receipt, nothing else overtly suspicious had emerged. But they’d already found more than she’d expected.

  “What about this pattern of receipts from a place called the Woman’s Exchange?” She indicated the three she’d set aside.

  “I found one of those too.” Cal went through his pile and extracted it. “It’s one of those genteel places for ladies who lunch.”

  They lined up the four receipts on the table in front of them.

  Moira scrutinized the information on the slips. “Same time every Friday. Must be the wife. And she must be meeting a close friend if they do this every week.”

  Cal leaned back, his expression speculative. “It would be interesting to hear what they talk about, don’t you think?”

  She considered that, then lifted her shoulder. “I don’t know. How much could they say in a public place?”

  “A lot more than you might expect. It’s amazing what people will discuss under the cover of conversation buzz in a roomful of people. They seem to think it gives them privacy.” He aimed a deliberate look her way. “I couldn’t go to a place like that without drawing way too much attention.”

  She knew what he was hinting. She could go without drawing any attention. And who knew what she might learn?

  Funny. Before they’d discussed the whole pretext thing earlier in the evening, she might have balked. But he’d convinced her that serving justice trumped minor ethical dilemmas. Eavesdropping on a conversation at a restaurant wouldn’t hurt anyone—and it might very well supply a critical clue in this rapidly deepening mystery.

  “Okay. I’ll go.”

  “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?”

  She didn’t blink. “Yes.”

  Several seconds ticked by as he regarded her. Then, with a dip of his head, he examined the four slips again. “She pays the bill about 12:45, give or take a few minutes.”

  “I’ll have to get there early and think of some excuse to hang around so I can get seated right after she does—and as close as possible.”

  “Not a problem. There’s a small consignment shop there. I read an article about it a few months ago. You can browse until she arrives.”

  “How will I know her?”

  “I’ll email you a link to a picture Nikki found when she was doing her initial background search. Since you’ll be dining alone, you can take a small notebook and jot down any info you hear. People will think you’re making a shopping list or planning a party.”

  “It sounds easy enough.” She picked up her can of soda, but it was empty.

  “Would you like another one?”

  She glanced around the garage. “I think we’re finished, aren’t we?”

  He surveyed the empty sheeting on the garage floor and the bulging trash bags. “Yeah. I guess we are.” He rose and began gathering up the scraps of paper that hadn’t yielded any usable information. “But after I stow all this stuff, why don’t we sit on the deck for a few minutes? It’s a nice night, and it’s not quite 9:00 yet. Then again, I don’t have to drive home.
And you might have an early day tomorrow.”

  An invitation, with a clear out. So did he want her to stay or not?

  Sometimes the man was impossible to read.

  Moira stood and began folding up the chairs and table as he disposed of the paper and plastic. Maybe she was overanalyzing. He’d invited her to stay, hadn’t he? Why not go with the flow? It wasn’t like a date or anything. It was a soda, simple and straightforward. She was the one with romance on the mind, not him. Still . . . why pass up the opportunity to enjoy a few more minutes of his company?

  She snapped the second chair shut and leaned it against the wall, next to a dusty basketball and a garden sign on a spike that said “Bloom where you are planted.”

  “Another soda sounds nice, thanks. As long as you let me wash my hands first.”

  He paused for half a heartbeat as he picked up a bulging plastic garbage bag, biceps bulging below the sleeves of his T-shirt. “That can be arranged. As long as you promise not to comment on my housekeeping.”

  “Trust me. I’m not one to point fingers, considering the proliferation of dust bunnies at my own place. They seem to multiply as fast as the real thing.” She tore her gaze away from his muscled arms.

  He hefted the bag into a large plastic garbage can, locked the lid in place, and led the way to the door on the side of the garage. After pushing it open, he stepped aside to let her enter, then joined her in the small mudroom.

  “The guest bath is through the kitchen, straight down the hall on your right. I’ll clean up in the utility sink in the basement and meet you by the back door.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Crossing the kitchen, which was painted an interesting shade of ochre, she took a quick inventory. There were no dishes in the sink and only a mug and small plate in the dish drain. A towel hung neatly on a bar beside the sink. There wasn’t an empty pizza box or fast-food container in sight. Nor did she see any evidence of dust.

  She ought to invite him over to clean up her place.

  As she passed the living and dining rooms, she had no more than a fleeting impression of bright spaces and clean lines and colorful prints on the walls. All uncluttered. All looking as if the space was hardly lived in.

  Why?

  Was Cal a better housekeeper than he’d let on? Were the demands of his job so intense that he spent little time here? Or did he choose to stay away as much as possible because the memories these walls held were too painful to endure except in small doses—but too sweet to walk away from?

  Moira closed the bathroom door behind her, soaped up her hands and arms, and rinsed away the grime. Perhaps Cal would offer a few of those answers tonight.

  And if not . . . she’d enjoy their conversation and then focus on her Friday trip to the Woman’s Exchange—her initiation into the world of covert surveillance.

  That should be an interesting experience.

  As for how productive it would be . . . who knew? Worst case, she’d have a nice lunch.

  But best case, she’d learn some new information that might bring them one step closer to solving the puzzle of the vanishing woman.

  11

  Cal heard the water shut off in the bathroom and took a long chug of his soda as he waited for Moira in the kitchen.

  He shouldn’t have asked her to stay and socialize.

  Not here.

  Not in the house he’d shared with Lindsey.

  Not in a place where his wife was everywhere.

  He scanned the space around him, so filled with her spirit.

  She was in the ceramic Family Circus cartoon plaque, rescued from the dollar table at a flea market, that now hung on the wall beside the sink: Yesterday’s the past, tomorrow’s the future, but today is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present.

  She was in the lopsided, handwoven potholders hanging on their usual hooks beside the stove, bought at a craft sale featuring products made by adults with Down syndrome.

  She was in the ugly, squat cactus on the windowsill, the last unsold item at a garden center clearance sale, adopted after the owner assured her it would bloom soon.

  He touched one of the prickly spines that kept friends and foes alike at arm’s length, tempted yet again to toss it in the trash. But the comment Lindsey had always made whenever he’d suggested that echoed in his mind.

  Let’s give it one more chance, Cal. It will bloom when the time is right. I know it.

  Six years later, Cal was still waiting for the promised profusion of color on the barren plant.

  The bathroom door opened, and he took another gulp of soda, trying to wash away the lump that had formed in his throat.

  “Did I hold you up?”

  Pasting on a smile, he popped the tab on the second can of soda and handed it to Moira.

  He needed to get her out of the house.

  Fast.

  “No. I just pulled these out of the fridge.” He moved toward the door. “If we’re lucky, the mosquitoes will lay low for once.”

  Releasing the security bolt with his foot, he twisted the lock, pushed open the slider . . . and tried to ignore the fresh fragrance that wafted toward him when she slipped past.

  As he shut the door behind them, she strolled over to the railing, eyeing the lights over the door and at the corners of the deck that kept shadows—and troublemakers—

  away.

  “So much for ambiance, huh?” She smiled at him, squinting in the glare as she tipped her soda can against her lips.

  “I’d rather have security.” He glanced around. It was pretty bright out here. Not the best atmosphere for relaxation. “Let me kill a couple of these.”

  Before she could respond, he reentered the house and flipped the switch that controlled the corner lights.

  When he returned, she’d claimed one of the white plastic chairs at the round, glass-topped table in the far corner of the deck. The one that used to be protected from the sun by a colorful, striped umbrella that was stored in the basement somewhere. He hadn’t spent enough time on the deck since Lindsey died to warrant searching for it.

  He settled into the chair beside her.

  “Better. Thank you.” She smiled at him.

  “No problem.” He took a swig of soda and exhaled slowly. Maybe this hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. The deck held fewer memories of Lindsey, and chilling for fifteen minutes with some light and easy chitchat was a nice wrap-up for a long day that had begun with a midnight trash run.

  He searched for an innocuous topic. “So your dad’s a philosophy professor.”

  “Yeah. At Mizzou.”

  “Is he one of those head-in-the-clouds stereotypes?” He grinned at her.

  Her mouth curved, softening her lips. “Only once in a while. My brother and I still kid him about the time he went to a mall in St. Louis and forgot where he parked his car. The security people had to help him find it.”

  Laughter bubbled up inside him as he took another swig of soda. “You don’t seem to have inherited the absentminded gene.”

  “Neither did my brother. He’s an engineer, currently communing with the camels in Dubai. What about your family? You mentioned a sister. Any other siblings?”

  “No. She’s married to an attorney with the State Department in Washington. They have two children. My dad is still active-duty Air Force, stationed in Germany.”

  “So no family close by.”

  His throat constricted, and though he tried to maintain an informal tone, his response came out strained. “Not anymore.”

  Silence descended, except for the buzz of the cicadas.

  So much for light and easy.

  Cal set his soda on the dusty table. Watched a drop of condensation roll down the side. Tried without success to think of some glib remark that would brighten the suddenly heavy mood.

  To his relief, Moira came to the rescue.

  “This is a pleasant spot. Very peaceful. The only outdoor space I have at the condo I’m renting is a tiny patio, and the few
evenings I’ve sat out there I’ve had to listen to my neighbor’s twangy country western music. I much prefer the cadence of your cicadas.”

  The tension in his shoulders dissipated. “I hear you. One of my partners is into U2, and much as I like everything Irish, a little bit of their music goes a long way. You must have a Celtic heritage too, with a name like Moira and that reddish hair.”

  “Not to mention freckles, which I’m happy to report faded as I aged.” She smiled and lifted her can in salute. “To everything Irish . . . in moderation.”

  He smiled back and clinked his can with hers.

  After taking a long swallow, she set her can on the table. “Thanks again for turning out the extra lights. This is much nicer.”

  “I agree. The deck is like a stage when they’re all on, and I haven’t been comfortable in the spotlight since I tripped on my shepherd’s robe in the third-grade Christmas play and lost my beard, much to the amusement of the audience.”

  He meant the comment as a joke.

  She took it more seriously.

  “I suppose that’s a prudent attitude even without your theatrical mishap, based on what you said once about you and your partners having enemies from your law enforcement days.” She shifted toward him. “Is that the real reason for all the security lighting?”

  Not a subject he wanted to discuss.

  “Partly.” He picked up his can and finished off the last of the soda. “But it’s always smart to take precautions. Bad things can happen when you don’t.”

  Like Lindsey dying.

  The sweet, lingering aftertaste of the cola turned bitter on his tongue, and he crushed the empty can in his fist, the metallic crumpling sound violating the gentle stillness of the night.

  When he set the mangled aluminum back on the table, Moira studied it. Lifted her gaze to his.

  He could read the questions in her eyes . . . and the empathy. It chipped away at the wall around his heart that allowed him to keep his feelings of loss and guilt and loneliness at bay, nudging him to share the mistakes he’d admitted to no one—not family, not friends, not his partners—with this woman he’d known less than a month.

  His pulse accelerated, and he gripped the arms of his chair, tottering on the edge of a darkness even his security lighting couldn’t dispel. It had taken him months to claw his way out of that abyss after Lindsey’s death. How could he even consider going back to that terrible place?