The Missing Hour

by Dawn Stewardson

  “And I’ll admit it could be,” Niebuhr said. “It’s even possible,” he added to Cole, “that, despite the image, she didn’t really see the murder at all.”

  Absently rubbing his jaw, Cole decided that if this

  wasn’t the most unusual case to ever walk into his office, it was a close second.

  Beth might have witnessed the murder or she might not have. And even if she had, her memory of it could be totally wrong. There certainly wasn’t a lot of factual information here.

  “But I can’t simply dismiss the possibility her memory’s accurate,” Niebuhr continued. “You see, she repressed it because of its incredibly strong emotional content And if you recover such an emotion-laden memory, the odds are high that it’s accurate.”

  “How high?”

  The doctor shook his head. “When you’re dealing with the workings of the human mind, quantification isn’t possible.”

  Cole waited, but that was apparently it. “So,” he said at last, “you’ve come to me because…?” It seemed pretty obvious, but he could hardly accept a case until somebody actually offered it to him.

  “We want you to find out whether Beth’s father did murder my wife,” Niebuhr told him.

  His glance flickered to Beth once more. She was clutching her hands together so tightly her knuckles were white. “Your uncle said ‘we.’ That’s what you want, too?”

  Her reply was an unhappy shrug.

  “You’re close to your father?”

  She hesitated, then said, “We were close when I was little. But after my parents separated he moved away. Then…

  “Well, he’s back in Toronto now, and we do see each other. In fact, I’m meeting him for dinner tonight.”

  Cole looked at Niebuhr. The doctor shook his head—almost imperceptibly, but it was enough to get his message across. He didn’t have much doubt about the accuracy of Beth’s memory, and he didn’t like the idea that she’d be seeing Glen Gregory tonight.

  “At any rate,” she concluded, “I can’t claim we’re close now. There were just too many years apart. But regardless of that, and regardless of what I think I saw, my father didn’t kill Larisa.”

  “If you’re certain about that, why are you here?” Cole said gently.

  She met his gaze again, and looking into the blue depth of her eyes, he could see how desperately she wanted to believe her father wasn’t capable of murder. But he could also see a trace of doubt.

  “I’m here,” she said at last, “because if there’s even the slightest chance he was the one…”

  “Beth would like to see Larisa’s killer identified as much as I would,” Niebuhr explained. “And even though she doesn’t believe her father’s guilty, she’s agreed to go to the police with me if you find evidence pointing in his direction. That’s our compromise.”

  “That’s part of our compromise,” she corrected him.

  Cole looked at her again. “And the other part?”

  “You let me work on this with you. As an unpaid assistant.”

  Under different circumstances, he might have laughed. An inexperienced assistant would be more of a liability than an asset. But given the state Beth Gregory was in, she wouldn’t take kindly to her proposition being laughed at.

  “Sorry, but that’s not an option,” he told her. “I always work alone.” “Then you don’t hire him,” she said to her uncle. “So let’s go,” she added, starting to rise.

  While Niebuhr gestured her back into her chair, Cole couldn’t help thinking about the anemic state of his bank account. He’d had some major expenses lately, and for the past couple of months, business had been hovering between slow and stop.

  Oh, there were a few things to finish up on a couple of cases, but after that he’d be straight out of work—unless he took this on.

  “Look, here’s the situation,” Niebuhr said, shooting him a humor-the-woman glance. “Beth is understandably upset, as am I. And she’s worried that a private investigator might…I’m not quite sure how to put this.”

  “We were told you’re an ex-cop,” Beth said before Niebuhr could decide on his phraseology.

  “Uh-huh. The majority of private investigators probably are.”

  “Well, let’s put what Mark was trying to say bluntly. I’ve heard a lot of stories about the police having tunnel vision. And if you set out trying to prove my father murdered my aunt, you might not be entirely…objective.”

  “I’m always objective,” he said, doing his best not to let his annoyance show. But Beth Gregory had undoubtedly gotten all her police stories straight off her television set, which meant she didn’t know what the hell she was talking about.

  “I’m sure you’re objective,” Niebuhr said quickly. “And that’s what both Beth and I want. Complete objectivity. We simply want to know the truth.

  “Way back, Glen and I weren’t only brothers-in law, we were friends. And even though we haven’t really kept in touch since he and Angela separated, I don’t want to learn he murdered my wife any more than Beth does. So, hopefully, you’ll find proof it wasn’t him. But we have to know, one way or the other.”

  “I can’t guarantee I could learn anything more than you already know. Twenty-two years is a long time.”

  “But you’ll do your best.”

  “Yes, of course. If I take the case.” Cole glanced at Beth once more, telling himself that even though he could use the money, the last thing he wanted was a case that came with a watchdog attached. Especially one with a strong emotional involvement.

  And what if her father was the killer? If he was, what would he do when he found out his daughter was asking questions about the murder?

  The more he thought about that, the less he liked the idea of her having a damn thing to do with the investigation. So he’d better find some way to dis-suade her.

  “This sort of investigation could take a while,” he explained. “I mean, if you’re intending to use vacation time…”

  “No, I’m self-employed, so I can organize my time pretty much as I choose. And I’ll free up as much as it takes. This is very important to me.”

  “Yes, that’s certainly understandable. But your working with me really isn’t a good idea.”

  “Look, I won’t get in your way. It’s just that / was the one who was determined to try and make the memory surface. And now…Well, I simply feel I have to see where this leads.”

  “Firsthand.”

  “Yes, firsthand,” she repeated firmly.

  Cole swore to himself. Apparently, he was only going to get this job on her terms. If he didn’t agree to let her tag along, she’d insist on finding somebody who would.

  And he didn’t like the thought of that. There were too many investigators around who were far shorter on scruples than he was, and if she got hooked up with one of them, there was no telling what kind of trouble she could find herself in.

  Besides, if he went along with her idea, she’d probably get bored playing detective in no time—and that would be the end of her involvement.

  “If I agree,” he said, “there’s no question about who calls the shots. You do what I tell you, even though you’re a paying client.”

  “Actually, I’m the paying client,” Niebuhr corrected him.

  Cole nodded. The good doctor had made that clear at the outset “Even so, she’s your niece.”

  “Look, I’ve got no illusions about being Nancy Drew,” Beth said quietly. “And since I don’t have a clue how we should go about things, I certainly wouldn’t try to call the shots.”

  When he didn’t immediately reply to that, Niebuhr said, “There’s something else you might be able to help her with.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mark, that’s nothing,” Beth said. “It happens to a lot of women.”

  “She lives alone,” Niebuhr continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “And she’s been getting threatening calls.”

  “What kind of threatening calls?” Cole asked her.

  “Just…
vague threats. He says things like, ‘I can get to you anytime I want, you know.’ Or sometimes it isn’t even a threat, but it still makes me…He’ll say something like, ‘I was watching you today. I like that blue suit you were wearing.’“

  “And that would be on a day you ‘were wearing a blue suit? I mean, he obviously did see you?”

  She nodded.

  “You don’t have caller ID?”

  “Yes, I do, but when he phones it reads Caller Unknown.”

  “Then he’s probably using a cell phone. But has he ever said why he’s watching you? Or why he might want to get to you?”

  “No. I don’t ask him any questions. I just hang up.”

  “It leaves her damn nervous, though,” Niebuhr said.

  “Yeah, I can see why it would.”

  “But that sort of thing never leads to anything more, does it?” Beth said. “I mean, crank callers are just crank callers.”

  “Usually,” Cole told her. That wasn’t always the case, though. “Do you have any idea who he is?”

  “No. The voice doesn’t sound quite real—more as if it’s computer generated.”

  “He probably has some sort of voice garbler. One of the miracles of modern technology. But when did the calls start?”

  “A month or so ago.”

  He leaned back in his chair, wondering if there could be any connection between them and her memory surfacing. A month ago, she’d already been try ing to remember the murder. And if the wrong person knew that, he might not be someone who would stop with only calls.

  Looking at her again, Cole realized that if he didn’t take this case and something awful happened to her…On the other hand, he still didn’t like the idea of having her trail along with him.

  “So? What do you think?” Niebuhr said.

  What he thought was that he might come to really regret this decision. What he said was, “Well, I guess you never know. Maybe I’ll find I like having an assistant.”

  Chapter Three

  It was past four, Cole saw, checking his watch. He’d assumed he’d be heading home about now, but that wasn’t how the afternoon had unfolded.

  Leaning against the edge of his desk, he eyed Beth as she said a prolonged goodbye to her uncle. Whatever he’d expected the outcome of this appointment to be, it hadn’t been that she’d stay right here so they could get started, together, immediately.

  It was making him rethink the likelihood that she’d get bored and back off in short order, making him suspect he’d more likely be stuck with her for the duration. But, to be honest with himself, he might not really mind her working on a case with him—if only it wasn’t this one.

  She had both guts and determination, two qualities he admired. And, of course, there was also her appearance, which he couldn’t help admiring, as well.

  Even though he’d never had any particular weakness for blue-eyed blondes, and even though he had a rule about not mixing business with pleasure, there was something about Beth Gregory that would prob ably tempt him to do just that if she hung around long enough.

  He told himself to stop thinking along that line and tuned into the conversation at the door.

  “What about your mother?” Niebuhr was saying. “Have you decided whether you’d like me to fill her in?”

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t mind?” Beth asked.

  “No. I think she’d be a lot less upset hearing it from me. And it would certainly be easier on you.”

  “I guess you’re right. But don’t tell her too much. And don’t let her even suspect I might have seen a face. Just say I’ve remembered a bit, and—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll tell her as little as possible. And I’ll warn her off pumping you for details.” Niebuhr gave Beth’s arm a pat. “I’ll stop by and see her on my way home.

  “Cole?” he added, looking over. “I’d like you to call me once a day—keep me current on what’s happening. I did give you a card with both my office and home number on it, didn’t I?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “All right. Call me at either place, whenever it’s convenient. And look, don’t let anything happen to Beth, eh? She’s the only niece I have, and I’m not entirely comfortable with all this.”

  “I haven’t lost a client yet.”

  Niebuhr didn’t smile. He simply turned and started down the hall.

  Beth closed the door, walked back over to the visitors’ chairs and picked up the briefcase she’d brought with her.

  “I have photocopies of all the newspaper articles I could find about Larisa’s murder,” she said, sitting down and producing a file folder from the case.

  That, Cole found surprising—and it made him think she might not prove to be quite as much of a liability as he’d been assuming.

  “I copied them after the nightmares started,” she explained, handing him the folder. “I was hoping that reading them would jog my memory, and I thought you’d probably like to see them.”

  ‘‘Good idea. They should help bring me up to speed.”

  “Well, they’re not long on detail. For some reason, the police weren’t saying much to the press. But I figured they’d be a start At any rate, is there something useful I could do while you look through them?”

  When he smiled, she gave him a quizzical glance. “Did I say something funny?”

  “No, you just made me wonder if you’re an efficiency expert.”

  That made her smile—only fleetingly, but it was the first hint of a smile he’d seen since she’d walked into his office.

  “I’m an interior designer,” she said. “But I’ll admit I hate wasting time.”

  “Good, because I was wondering if we could work through dinner.”

  “Sorry, but I’m meeting my father for dinner.”

  He nodded. “You mentioned that, and I thought maybe I could tag along. He’s one of the people we’ll be wanting to talk to, so we might as well start with him.”

  “Because you think he’s guilty?” she said evenly.

  “No.” Which wasn’t a lie. Suspecting wasn’t exactly the same as thinking. But he sure didn’t want her alone with her father when she dropped her little bombshell.

  ‘‘I’m objective, remember?” he told her. “But I do want to see your father’s reaction when you tell him we’re investigating Larisa’s murder. Besides, you came in your uncle’s car, right? So you could use a ride.”

  She gazed at him for a moment. “I could go home and pick up my own car. Or take the streetcar.”

  He shrugged. “I’m a good man to travel with. I’ve got a black belt in karate. Besides, you’ll like my car. It’s a classic Mustang.”

  “You mean it’s an old Mustang.”

  “You’re obviously a hard woman to impress. But, look, I live alone, too. And I get awfully tired of my own cooking. And you hate wasting time.”

  “Oh…yes, okay.” She pushed her hair back from her face, looking anxious. “Maybe a third person wouldn’t be a bad idea, because I know I’m going to feel uncomfortable. Telling him…Well, I’m not sure exactly how to tell him. Or exactly what.

  “I certainly can’t say I remembered the killer having his face. That would make him feel…Lord, I can’t even imagine how awful it would make him feel.”

  “No, you’re right. You don’t want to tell him that. But we’ll probably be talking to a lot of people before we’re finished. And every last one of them will be curious about why your uncle’s hired a private investigator after all these years. And about why you’re working with me. So you’ll have to figure out what you want your cover story to be.

  “I mean, you can’t tell anyone the entire truth about what you remembered,” he elaborated when she looked uncertain. “Not when you don’t want the police hauling your father in for questioning.”

  “No…no, of course not.”

  “Then that’s what you can do while I look at these articles. Come up with something you can say that’ll sound believable.’

  WHEN COLE OPENED
the folder-and began to skim the photocopies, Beth turned her thoughts to possible cover stories and considered what options she might have—until he looked up from his reading and said, “What about this police statement that has you playing in the basement when the murder took place?”

  “It’s not true. I guess they were afraid the killer would come after me if he thought I might have seen him, but I was definitely in the attic. That part of my memory was always perfectly clear.”

  After Cole nodded and went back to the photocopies, she simply sat watching him read. She suspected there was a frustrated author living somewhere inside her, because she always found herself mentally describing people she met. But today she’d been so upset that she hadn’t gotten around to doing it with him until now.

  In his mid-thirties, he looked exactly like she’d have expected an ex-cop might look—one who kept in shape, at least.

  He was attractive, but not in the boyishly charming way Brian was attractive. No, boyish definitely wouldn’t describe Cole Radford. His brown hair was no-nonsense short and his features were rugged.

  If she had to sum up her impression of him in one sentence, she’d probably say that he was a little rough around the edges but had a worldly-wise air about him.

  If she had two sentences, she’d add that his hazel eyes undoubtedly saw right through any bull that got slung his way. And she’d bet he didn’t like people trying to tell him what to do, so she was still a little surprised he’d gone along with the idea of her working with him. But she was relieved that he had.

  She knew that if Mark hadn’t pressured her, she’d have simply kept on telling herself that her memory of the murder was confused—that, in reality, the killer couldn’t possibly have been her father. But she owed Mark so much that when he’d insisted they either talk to the police or hire a detective, she’d given in. Very reluctantly, though.

  Aside from her other misgivings, she’d had visions of ending up with some private eye straight out of a Raymond Chandler novel—one who kept a bottle of whiskey on his desk and called women “broads.” Cole Radford was several cuts above that.