Lost in Deception (Lost series)

by DeVito, Anita

  “You think there could be money?” Sylvie said, cutting right through the bullshit.

  “There could be, especially if the accident was not an accident.”

  “I could really use it.” She sipped from her glass. “I’m starting a business. Joey was helping me, just until I get going. You know.”

  “What kind of business?” Peach asked, knowing full well the story.

  “I am a consultant for Unforgettable You. We manufacture our own product line. We are totally committed to protecting the earth. We don’t even test on animals anymore. You have nice skin.”

  “Um, thanks. So, Miss McKinley—”

  “We have this killer wrinkle cream that will make you look like you are in your twenties again. Let me go get my kit.” Sylvie jumped to her feet, wobbled on those stacked pins for a second, and then bounced to the stairs and up to the next level.

  Tom gave her a big, toothy grin. “I wouldn’t have put you at a day over thirty-six.”

  “I’m twenty-nine,” she said, scowling at him. When his eyebrow went up, she bared her teeth. “And thirteen twelfths, you know-it-all bastard.”

  Heavy heel strikes on wood announced Sylvie’s return. “I’m sure Mr., uh, Crankshaft—”

  Tom stood as she came back into the room. “Please, call me Harry.”

  “All right,” she said, flustering a little when he stood. “I just know you are going to love our Expressions line, Ms. Morales.”

  “Call her E.M.,” Tom said. “Would you happen to have any coffee?”

  “Oh. I haven’t made any today. But I can.”

  “No, no. I’m a modern man. It will be my pleasure to make coffee for you lovely ladies. No need for you to stop what you’re doing.” He winked at Sylvie as he left Peach to her fate.

  “He’s nice,” Sylvie said softly, but Tom heard clearly.

  “Yeah, he’s a prince. So, Miss McKinley—”

  “Oh, call me Sylvie, E.M.” She giggled. “That sounds so mysterious.”

  “Not really. So tell me about Joe.”

  “First, let me tell you about Expressions eyelift.” She opened her patented red Unforgettable You case and held a squat pearl jar reverently in her hand. “Tilt your head back.”

  Pearl jars of every size soon lined the stone-topped coffee table. Peach squirmed for the first five minutes, trying to get Sylvie to focus on Joe. But when Sylvie began tapping some goop she claimed was seaweed extract, she melted into the chair. Tom saw her hands, previously knotted into fists, dangle freely. Then came the dark gray facial mask.

  “How long were you and Joe together?” Tom asked.

  “Just nine months. I moved in after three.” Sylvie glanced over her shoulder. “His father is trying to kick me out. He wants to sell this place and send me packing. He never believed Joe and I were the real deal.”

  “Were you and Joe the real deal?”

  Sylvie walked over and held out her hand. On her ring finger was shiny cluster of rocks that swallowed her hand. “We were engaged,” she said. “Officially but more importantly, here, where it counted.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “Do you know what that’s like, Harry?”

  His gaze snapped to Peach, and his heart skipped a beat.

  “Now he’s gone. They haven’t found him, you know. The police officers are nice, but I know they think he’s dead.”

  “Whaamp doa do maany por all das?” Her cheeks and mouth didn’t move. Her lips shifted, but it was just the tips. The idea occurred to him that the high-class shit was likely low-grade concrete.

  “Oh,” Sylvie said. “The mask is nearly dry. Just fifteen minutes and we can break it off.”

  Peach stiffly turned until she could see him. He toasted her with a small salute. Behind Sylvie’s back, she flipped him off.

  It was so hard not to laugh.

  Peach’s hand fished around, found a jar, and Tom was ready to duck. Sylvie intervened, taking the jar and undoing the top two buttons on Peach’s shirt. Then more concrete was massaged into her throat and chest.

  The coffeemaker bubbled and dripped in the background. “Sylvie, do you know of anyone who wanted to hurt Joe?”

  Sylvie’s fingers worked Peach’s palm. “I don’t, Harry. Joe was the best. He shared everything he had. With me. With his friends. He worked so hard to get out from under his father’s thumb. He deserved better.”

  Tom handed Sylvie a cup of coffee. “Was his father helping him out? Is that how he afforded this place?”

  She snorted inelegantly. “His father is some big shot in a hospital and thought his son was too good for the construction business. His father could have made his life easy, but he didn’t. Joe picked up as much overtime as F&F would give him, and then he did some work on the side.”

  That peaked his interest. “What was the side work?”

  “Construction, I think. He didn’t talk about it much. He did say one time that somebody finally recognized what he could do.” Sylvie leaned in and dropped her voice. “It was good, you know, because it was cash.”

  “Did he talk about anyone in particular at work? Maybe someone who he wasn’t getting along with?”

  Sylvie sipped the coffee and then frowned at the taste. She went back into the living room, retrieved her mug, and poured it into the coffee. Satisfied, she tapped on the lightly on the drying mask. She lifted Peach’s hand and made a tsk tsk sound before diving back into the vast red case. She came out with a white tube and squirted a dollop in her palm. Sylvie knelt on the floor and began massaging Peach’s hand and forearm. “It’s our Expressions skin cream. Heavenly, isn’t it?”

  Peach sighed long and soft, a very satisfied woman.

  Sylvie looked at Tom. “Honestly, Harry. Everyone liked Joe. The only person he ever bitched about was Fabrini’s son, Michael. I met him at the Christmas party last year. He threw a branch of mistletoe down my dress and tried to dive in after it. That shit scratches, you know? Anyway, working as an exotic dancer, I learned a thing or two. The asshole didn’t touch me after that.”

  “Arghff mmm doon ere.”

  “What did she say?” Sylvie asked.

  “I don’t speak spa.” Tom sipped his coffee. “Did Joe have an office here? Do you mind if I have a look?”

  “Sure, Harry. Anything if it will help Joe. Upstairs, first door. That’s where he kept what he called ‘his books.’ The drawer has a second set of books that we aren’t supposed to tell anyone about. Do you think that will help?”

  Tom looked at the naiveté in her eyes, and he felt for the girl. She didn’t deserve this mess any more than Peach did. “This will help immensely.”

  Peach hurried along the sidewalk, her arms containing the overfull bag. The jars and tubes of the Unforgettable You signature collection looked so small spread on the table. The smirking man was right behind her. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You thought it loud enough for a deaf man to hear. And you know what? I don’t care. It worked, and my skin feels great. Feel it.” She stopped dead on the sidewalk, lifting her face to him.

  “Your face is perfect the way it is.” His fingers drew down the side of her face.

  She swallowed hard and walked away. The honesty in his voice scared her. How different would New Year’s Eve have been with him? She stopped, and he ran into her. “What would you say if you saw me at a party in a fancy dress with borrowed jewelry and my hair blown out straight?”

  His brows pressed down, the same expression he wore when he worked. It was a trick question, and he knew it. Finally, he answered. “I’ve seen you naked.”

  Then he started walking again.

  She chased after him, using her shoulder to get him to stop. “What kind of answer is that? What does it mean?”

  “Since seeing you naked, that’s the only way I see you. Wet suit, jeans and shirt, dress pants and blouse. Fancy dress. Doesn’t matter. I only see you. You don’t need all that stuff,” he said, pointing with his c
hin to the overflowing bag. “But if you want it, I’ll buy it. Just so there’s no misunderstanding between us about what I think of you. And I get to apply the breast cream.”

  She felt self-conscious that she wanted all the little jars and frivolous that she’d borrowed Tom’s credit card to pay for it since hers was a little slim on available credit. “I don’t have to pay you back?”

  “No, it was worth the price to see the look on your face when Sylvie started to strip you. Think that started a new fantasy, FYI. And then, it got us all the information we needed to confirm that Joe Carter was skimming the books.” His lusty expression made her giggle. She could imagine what he was imagining, and it likely wasn’t legal in Tennessee. “Sixty thousand tax free. Those tits must have cost a pretty penny.”

  She tossed him a cool look over her shoulder. “What is with that? You knew they were fake, and you were still drooling over them.”

  He scowled, shoving his fists in his pockets. “I wasn’t drooling. I was appreciating the craftsmanship. Did you notice how balanced they were? Firm without being overdone? A woman goes to those extents to look good, a man is obligated to pay attention. It’s respectful.”

  “Now that I let you buy my favor, you better believe that I’m the only woman you’re respectful to.” She jumped. Her teasing came out much more possessive than she intended. She started walking again, forcing him to catch up.

  “Where are we going next?”

  “We have a date with Mrs. Terry Hawthorne. Do you know her?”

  “Not really.” He climbed in the car and then brought up Carolina’s notes. “I met her once or twice, but I was just a kid. I hadn’t filled out yet. No way she remembers me. Okay, what do we have? They were married sixteen years. She’s a stay-at-home mom to two boys.”

  Peach drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, considering and dismissing approaches. She had spoken briefly to the woman to schedule the appointment. There was a nervous element to her. “I think we need to both play the good cop with this one. You take the lead.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I thought I was your lowly helper.”

  “And wallet. My read from the quick conversation is that Mrs. Hawthorne expects and respects men in certain positions. Doctors. Lawyers. Investigators. I start off, playing the pathetic, subservient lower grade partner, and then you take control.”

  “Easy as that?”

  She glanced at the mapping and turned onto the highway. “We start with a plan and then adapt.”

  The Hawthorne’s suburban development featured four styles of home with six options, which led to a very neat and tidy neighborhood. It was right in line with the way he’d ordered his files. The Hawthorne’s home sat tucked back in a cul-de-sac, a basketball hoop in the driveway.

  She stood in front of Tom, her hair re-twisted into a professional knot and a pair of clear glasses on her face. “Look stern,” she said as she knocked quickly. She glanced over her shoulder and saw his set jaw. “Perfect.”

  A teen with a long body and a mop of blond hair answered the door.

  “Hi. I’m Detective E.M. Morales. This is my boss, Dick Cutter.” The boy grinned and giggled the way she expected. “We called and spoke to your mother. Is she home?”

  The boy looked over his shoulder nervously. “Um, I’m not, uh, sure.”

  “Son,” Tom said in an authoritative voice, “this is important.”

  “Okay. Um, just a minute.” He turned away from the door. “Mom! There are two detectives at the door.”

  A cute middle-aged woman with shoulder-length dark hair appeared at the door. “Can I help you?”

  “Mrs. Hawthorne? I’m E.M. Morales. We spoke this morning. This is my partner, Dick Cutter. We are investigating the incident at the F&F construction site last Friday.”

  “Are you with the police?”

  “No, ma’am. We were retained by the family of one of the other missing men. May we come in?” Tom asked politely as he stepped into the opening and forced Mrs. Hawthorne back.

  “I was just on my way out,” she said, looking around as if for a reason to leave.

  “We won’t take but a minute,” he said. “Are you aware of any irregularities on the job site that could have contributed to the crane collapse?”

  “I-I’m sure I don’t know anything about cranes, Mr. Cutter.”

  Mrs. Hawthorne continued to back step. Her hands were knotted together as she examined the tile work on the floor.

  Tom took a step for every one she retreated. Not crowding her but not letting her escape. “We suspect that the crane failure was the result of sabotage.”

  Mrs. Hawthorne’s eyes snapped to Tom’s. “Can you prove it?”

  “We are working on it, ma’am. Is there anything you can tell us? Anything your husband told you may help us expose the culprit.”

  Her eyes went wide, and then she started ringing her hands. “I-I don’t know anything, not really.”

  Tom was pushing too hard. Mrs. Hawthorne knew something, enough to be nervous. She needed a reason to confide in them. Peach interceded. “Dick? Do you mind if I speak with Mrs. Hawthorne privately?”

  Tom looked at her, nodded once, and went out the front door.

  Mrs. Hawthorne stood in her living room picture window. A bundle of nerves wound too tight.

  Peach read the woman as a nurturer, someone whose life revolved around caring for others. She would be less motivated by money but more by her instinct. “Who are you worried about?”

  Mrs. Hawthorne moved her hand to her throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  She stayed quiet, filling her expression with compassion and sympathy.

  She took off the useless glasses, crossed the perfectly neat room, and put her hand on Mrs. Hawthorne’s trembling one. “I understand what you are going through.”

  Mrs. Hawthorne shook her head, the pain in her eyes so real, so vivid, Peach rubbed her hand over her own heart.

  “I do. My uncle is Rico Morales. The crane operator. My client is my grandfather. I understand the helplessness. I understand the feeling that you are strapped to a pendulum. One moment you are cautiously optimistic that a miracle happened and your loved one will walk through the front door. The next moment you are washed in despair, grief, and hopelessness. My grandfather is everything to me. He raised me, sacrificed his life for me, and never asked for anything in return. Now he needs his son back, and I’m going to give that to him. Tell me what you need, and I promise you, I’ll make it happen.”

  Mrs. Hawthorne covered her gaping mouth. Silent tears rolled down her colorless cheeks. She trembled as she stepped away from Peach. Jerky, coltish steps took her into an end table. A lamp teetered and then fell unnoticed as Mrs. Hawthorne retreated to the hallway. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” Then she turned and ran up the stairs.

  She cursed under her breath and followed at a distance. She heard the wretched violence of vomiting through the door at the top of the stairs. She knocked gently. “Mrs. Hawthorne? Is there someone I can call for you?”

  “Just leave. Please. Just leave.”

  She laid her palm against the door, a silent apology, and then left the house. Tom waited in the car, working on his smart phone.

  “Did you get anything?” he asked when she closed the door.

  She leaned her head against the headrest and closed her eyes. “I played the wrong card. I screwed up and played the wrong card. I got nothing.”

  He started the car and drove out of the neighborhood. He found a strip of stores with a busy parking lot and pulled the sedan into an empty spot. “Tell me what happened. Did she deny knowing anything?”

  “So you read her the same way.”

  “Nobody out of puberty sweats that much.”

  “I figured the best odds were that she was protecting her children. She looked afraid—not guilty. If Hawthorne was involved in embezzlement, it’s likely she was getting leaned on to keep the secret. The easiest way to lean on a newly single m
other is to threaten her children.”

  “Reasonable.”

  “Except I was wrong. I tried to connect with her victim to victim. She ran on me. I left her throwing up in the bathroom.”

  “Well, you may not have gotten the reaction you were looking for, but you certainly got one. Look at this.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thursday, April 13 twelve-thirty p.m.

  The mapping app filled the small screen with the graphic image of the neighborhood around them. A blue dot pulsed along a road. “What is this?”

  “Mrs. Hawthorne pulling out of her development.”

  Peach looked up at Tom, impressed. “You put a bug on her car. I see I’m not the only one with tricks up my sleeve.” The dot moved away from them at a steady clip. “Aren’t you going to follow her?”

  “Let’s give her a little space. We aren’t going to lose her, but we could spook her.” They watched the screen. “She’s heading north.”

  “Toward Lake Erie.”

  “The boat,” they said at the same time.

  The public marina was ready for a plethora of small- to mid-sized boats that belonged to middle-class citizens with sailing in their blood. In mid-April, just a handful of the docks were in use.

  Tom pulled off the road, parking on a grassy embankment a couple of hundred yards before the entrance. “Get the binoculars out of my bag.”

  She reached into the black bag behind his seat and found the hard case of the powerful binoculars. She whistled. “Nice toy.”

  “Jeb’s not the only one who knows how to pack.” He took the high-powered lenses out of the lined case and scanned the marina. “There she is.” He handed her the glasses. “Third pier from the left.”

  She lifted the glasses to her eyes. The marina popped in vivid Technicolor. “She’s really moving. There’s only one boat left. Jackrabbit IV.” She handed the glasses back.

  “Bingo. She’s not alone.”

  “Jack Hawthorne?”

  “It has got to be.”

  She vibrated in the passenger seat. “If he’s alive, then maybe Rico is. Let’s go.”

  “We will. We will, I promise. But we have to plan. Think this through. Why is he hiding? Innocent men don’t hide. Guilty ones do. We mess this up, he’ll pull the anchor and be out of here.”