With time to kill, he ambled down the hallway toward the cafeteria. The squeak of rubber-soled shoes and the steady stream of hospital staff dressed in scrubs assured him he was heading in the right direction. Soon the antiseptic hospital scent gave way to familiar breakfast smells—sausage on the grill and fried potatoes.
He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number by heart.
“Good morning,” Marissa said coolly.
She was pissed. He couldn’t blame her. No one liked waking up alone, especially when you didn’t go to bed that way.
“How did you sleep?”
“Better than you, obviously.”
“Sorry, I’m a restless sleeper. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Where are you?”
“At the hospital.”
“What? Is everything okay?”
She sounded worried and Seth grinned into the phone.
“You kept me up pretty late. I’m not as young as I used to be . . .”
She laughed. The unfamiliar sound warmed his heart.
“Seriously, Seth.”
“Seriously, I had a hunch and wanted to run it by Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth? Why?”
“Last night at the benefit there was a guy staring at you.”
“Jealous?”
The unexpected comment knocked him temporarily off stride. A beat of silence passed before he recovered.
“Funny. No. I saw Elizabeth talking to him. I figured she might know who he is.”
Seth was holding back. Withholding information from the victim’s family was a routine part of the job, but Marissa was more than the victim’s mother, and being intentionally vague didn’t sit well with him. His sense of guilt deepened and he wanted off the phone.
He searched for an excuse. Evan Holt saved him the trouble.
“Detective Crawford?”
“Look, Marissa, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.”
Seth hung up. Evan Holt still wore the black pants and creased tuxedo shirt from last night. Bloodshot eyes spoke of the sleepless night Evan had spent at his aunt’s bedside.
“You’re up awfully early, Detective. What brings you here?”
“How’s Elizabeth?”
“A little better this morning, thanks.”
“Good to hear. I was hoping to speak with her.”
Seth waited for a barrage of questions that didn’t come.
“Of course.”
The nurse glared at Seth as they approached the desk. Thick lips pursed, she raised her hand like a traffic cop halting their progress.
“You have a short memory,” she said. “Family only. Remember?”
“He is family. My cousin,” Evan said.
“Your cousin?”
Her eyebrows arched. Undeterred, Evan slung an arm around Seth’s shoulders.
“Second cousin, actually. You don’t see the resemblance?”
“No.”
“Well, you’ll just have to take my word for it.”
The scowl on the nurse’s face deepened, but she didn’t stop him.
Elizabeth dozed in the hospital bed. Asleep, she looked so frail. Seth gripped the footrail and glanced up at the chirping monitors. Her vital signs looked all right. Her blood pressure was a little high, but then, his probably was too. Hospitals had that effect on him.
Underneath the clinical smell of ammonia and medicine, he detected something else. Something sweeter. Darker. Sickness. Elizabeth Holt’s time was running out. The drops of medication slowly falling into the tube in her arm counted down like grains of sand in an hourglass. The thought depressed him.
Underneath the ball-busting demeanor, Elizabeth was a good woman. Strong. He hoped she had enough time left to see the foundation flourish. She deserved that much.
Elizabeth stirred. Her eyes slowly opened, and she squinted at him.
“Crawford,” she said in a voice as thick and grainy as sandpaper.
She didn’t look surprised to see him, and Seth smiled reassuringly.
“It’s good to see you, Ms. Holt.”
“Alive, you mean? Ha. Yes. They say only the good die young.”
Seth’s lips twitched in amusement. “Then I’ll live to a ripe old age,” he said.
A chuckle rattled at the back of her throat. “Up until recently, I would have said the same.”
Knowing that comforting platitudes would just piss Elizabeth off, he got right to the point.
“Last night, before you collapsed, you were talking to this young man. Do you remember?”
Seth showed Elizabeth the photo of Brooke at the bar with the man he’d seen at the benefit. Elizabeth blinked and squinted as she tried to recall. Finally she shook her head.
“I was talking to him?” she asked, her expression confused. “No. I was talking to Alistair’s daughter. Maybe he was with her.”
It wasn’t what he’d hoped for, but it was a lead. Seth pocketed the phone.
“Thank you, Ms. Holt. I’ll let you get some rest.”
When he was halfway to the door, Elizabeth’s voice stopped him.
“I doubt idle curiosity brought you here this early, Detective. What is it about this young man that piques your interest?”
Always the lawyer, Seth thought, admiring her quick mind. He turned.
“It’s just a hunch.”
“You think he might be involved in Brooke’s case?”
“I’ll give you an update as soon as I have more. Thanks for your help.”
“One more thing, Crawford,” she said. “Did Marissa make it home safely last night?”
Seth’s cheeks warmed at the question. Did she know, or had she guessed? Either way, his poker face failed him, and he felt like a teenage boy caught out after curfew.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Good. Off you go then.”
Dismissed by Elizabeth, Seth strode toward the exit, pulling the cell phone from his pocket.
“Any luck?” he asked Henry Cahill.
“Not yet. The search is still running. You?”
“Elizabeth Holt doesn’t remember talking to our guy before she collapsed. Do you have an address for Alistair Wright?”
“Give me a sec,” Cahill said.
The cold rain pelted Seth’s head as he crossed the street. He unlocked the car door and climbed inside.
“He owns a corporate law firm in Bellevue.”
“Text me the address.”
“Sure thing.”
#
The receptionist, an older woman in her midfifties, raised her head and smiled in greeting. Her smile faltered as she caught sight of Seth’s scars. Used to this type of reaction, he barely noticed the shift in her expression. She recovered her composure quickly.
“Good morning. May I help you?”
“Seth Crawford here to see Alistair Wright.”
The woman glanced at her screen through the thick lenses of her square-rimmed glasses. A deep, vertical frown line appeared between her eyebrows.
“Do you have an appointment, Mr. Crawford?”
“No, but it’s critical I speak with him.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid it’s not possible.”
“I’m investigating an abduction case and I need Mr. Wright’s help.”
“Oh, are you a police officer?”
Seth scowled and shook his head. Not anymore.
“I’m an investigator for the Holt Foundation. It really is important I speak with him right away.”
“The Holt Foundation?”
Recognition registered in her eyes. Her gaze softened.
“He’s in court today,” she said. “I suppose you could try and catch up with him there.”
Seth knew he could wait hours before a recess. Even then, Wright’s first priority would be his client. Trying to get his attention might well be futile.
The cell phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. Glancing at the display, he saw it was Cahill.
>
“Got something?” he asked, skipping the preamble.
“I got a match. Dude we’re looking for is Andrew Matthews. He lives two blocks away from the coffee shop where someone uploaded the picture of Charles Sully on Brooke’s phone.”
A rush of adrenaline shot through Seth, sweeping away all remnants of fatigue. It was the best news he’d had all day.
“Andrew Matthews,” he repeated, committing the name to memory. “I’ll head back to the office. Pull up anything you can find on him.”
“Already on it.”
Seth ended the call and swung back to the receptionist, a sudden thought occurring to him. She glanced up through the thick lenses of her glasses.
“Is Andrew Matthews one of Mr. Wright’s clients?”
“Andrew Matthews? No. He’s engaged to Mr. Wright’s daughter.”
Chapter 49
Alicia Wright strode into the lobby of Elliot Jones Investments, the heels of her Gucci shoes clicking on the marble floor. She was tired. Drew had kept her up way too late. Now it was 8:00 a.m., and with a triple-shot venti mocaccino in hand, she was ready to face another day.
She loved the way the lobby smelled of leather and chrome and wealth—all the trappings of old money disguised by a modern facade.
The mousy little receptionist drenched in Chanel No. 5 glanced up and offered a timid smile.
“Uh, Ms. Wright. There’s someone here to see you.”
What? Alicia tossed her long hair over her shoulders and glanced around the lobby. She never took meetings before nine. Besides, it was Wednesday. She wasn’t scheduled to see any clients this morning. Clearly there was some kind of screw-up.
The sight of the man sitting hunched on the sleek leather couch stopped her cold. Anger flared hot in her cheeks.
“Liam.”
Damn him for showing up here. At Gretchen’s memorial service, she’d told him she never wanted to lay eyes on him again, and she’d meant it.
Liam stood. He looked tired. Disheveled. Like he’d barely slept. Alicia fixed her furious gaze on him, death rays shooting from her eyes. He thrust his hands out toward her, pleading for her to go slowly.
“Wait. Just wait,” he said, sheepishly. “At least hear me out.”
“What gives you the right to show up here of all places?” she hissed in a muted tone, pitched low so only Liam would hear.
“This.”
Liam thrust the envelope into her hands with such force she stumbled back a step to steady herself. She had no choice but to take the damned thing—either that or let it fall to the floor.
“What the hell is this? Your psych evaluation? Your apology for ruining Gretchen’s life? Let me save you some time . . .”
Her control slipping, her voice rose, capturing the notice of the two other clients who were waiting patiently in their seats, thumbing through copies of Architectural Digest and Seattle Magazine. She stopped herself. Pursing her lips, she glowered at him.
“Get out.”
“Think what you want about me, Alicia, but I’m begging you, just read it.”
Alicia glared at the envelope in her hand with a look of disgust, like she was holding a dead rat.
“Why would I do anything you ask?”
Clasping his hands together in front of him, he leaned toward her. “Please. I’m doing this for you.”
The fucking nerve of the guy.
“Since when have you ever done anything for anyone other than yourself?”
Liam hung his head. Lank blond hair fell into his eyes.
“Look, you hate me.”
“Hate you?” she yelled, fury bursting from a place deep in her chest. “You’re goddamned right I hate you.”
With all eyes on her now, she whirled on the receptionist.
“Claire,” she snapped. “Call security and get this man escorted from the building.”
“Right away,” Claire squeaked, picking up the phone.
“Fine. I’ll go. But I’m telling you, your boyfriend isn’t who he says he is . . .”
“Are you high?” she interrupted him. “What makes you think I’d believe a single word that comes out of your lying mouth? Especially about the man I’m going to marry.”
“Marry? You’re engaged?”
Alicia flashed the ring in his face and Liam blanched. With the look of a beaten man, he ran a hand across his eyes.
“I hired a private investigator. His card is in there. If you don’t believe me, call him. Please, Alicia. He’ll tell you everything.”
The door opened behind her and a security guard entered the lobby. Well over six feet tall, he was 220 pounds of pure muscle with a don’t-fuck-with-me expression that left little room for doubt.
“Sir, you’ll have to come with me.”
His hard voice matched his steely expression. Liam nodded.
“I’ll go. Just promise me you’ll read it.”
Alicia rolled her eyes.
“Whatever.”
After badging through security, Alicia strode through the maze of cubicles until she reached her desk. Irritation buzzed like bees inside her head. She pitched the envelope so hard into the recycling bin under her desk that it rattled against the cubicle wall.
Heaving out a frustrated sigh, Alicia stripped off her coat and dropped down into her chair.
Wait until she told Drew about this. He’d be even more pissed than she was.
She picked up her mocaccino and took a sip. It tasted cold. Bitter.
Damn Liam for ruining her day. Showing up here with these wild accusations! As if she’d believe a single word he said ever again.
Alicia slammed her cup down on the desk. Coffee spurted out and splattered her keyboard. Dammit. Rolling her chair back, she plucked a tissue from a box and swabbed up the mess.
She pitched the wadded tissue into the trash and glanced at the recycling bin. A corner of the envelope crested above the lip of the box.
She could only imagine the kind of dirt Liam’s investigator had dug up on Drew. Unpaid parking tickets, stealing a doughnut from a grocery, a DUI? How low would Liam sink to discredit her fiancé? Had Drew lied on his résumé? Cheated on his SATs? God knew Liam was no choirboy. If not for his über-rich father, Liam would have ended up in hot water more than once.
Alicia shook her head and turned back. She stared blankly at her monitor. A few seconds passed. Then she looked back down into the recycling bin.
Chapter 50
A horn blasted. Drew craned his neck around, hoping to glimpse the impatient bastard in the car behind him. Light reflected off the windshield, obscuring the driver from view. Good thing too. Otherwise he might have hunted the fucker down and beat the shit out of him, just for fun.
Parked beside the card reader, Drew rummaged through the pockets of his messenger bag for the third time before pitching it onto the seat beside him. Fuck. He’d forgotten his access key. Now he’d have to waste half an hour heading back to his condo to get the fucking thing.
Gritting his teeth, he jammed the gearshift into reverse and stomped on the gas pedal. The horn blared again—not angry this time, panicked, as Drew drilled back toward the bumper of the BMW. At the last second, he cut the wheel, narrowly avoiding slamming into the asshole behind him. Screeching out of the parking lot, he got a small measure of satisfaction in knowing the Beamer boy’s ass was still puckered tight after the near miss.
After inserting the key into the condo’s dead bolt, he found it unlocked. Drew frowned and stepped back, eyeing the doorframe. He never forgot to lock his door. Although nothing looked damaged, something didn’t feel right.
Drew eased silently into the apartment.
Nothing looked out of place, nothing that he could see anyway. He removed his shoes and moved quietly across the floor.
A clanging noise came from the bedroom. Drew reached for the first thing he could use as a weapon. He plucked a bronze statue of the Space Needle off a nearby shelf and kept moving. It weighed heavy in his hand.
> Alicia had bought the gaudy thing for him on their first date, dinner at the Space Needle. He remembered coming home that night, still buzzing from the date, and running into the old lady down the hall. She’d yammered his ear off for half an hour—something about the garbage disposal. All the while he’d pictured beating her senseless with the statue just to shut her up.
Since then he’d threatened to throw it out half a dozen times, used it as a hammer to drive nails into the wall, grouted tile with the pointy end, used it as a measuring stick, and flattened chicken with it, much to Alicia’s chagrin. But somewhere along the line, it had grown on him, and the cold, hefty weight of it felt good in his hand as he pushed open the bedroom door.
Yellow light spilled from the closet onto the hardwood floors. Drew heard a hiss, like the sound of shuffling paper. Someone was definitely in there. Looking for what? Raising the statue above his head, he stepped through the doorway.
Alicia knelt on the closet floor. She looked up. In the harsh overhead lights, her eyes looked puffy and red, as if she’d been crying. Drew lowered the statue, still gripping it tight in his hand. His heart raced like a deer caught in the crosshairs.
“Christ, Alicia. You scared me half to death. What are you doing here?” Scanning the scene, he took in the mass of papers around her in a single glance. Tax returns, utility bills, pay stubs. What in God’s name was she looking for?
Alicia set the papers fisted tight in her grip down on the floor. She glared up at him, her stony expression, defiant.
“Who is Andrew Bowman?”
The breath rushed from Drew’s lungs in a huff. A live current of fear convulsed through his chest, and he stared at her in shock and amazement.
Where did she hear that name?
“Who?”
Alicia studied him, her cold eyes a frosty blue. This was no random question, and the bloody specter of his secret past rose between them like a ghost. His gaze dropped to the nest of papers strewn around her on the closet floor, and he realized that Alicia, desperate for answers, was searching for evidence, some piece of documentation that tied Drew to his past life.
In the Dark Page 28
