Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2)

by Susan O'Brien

  “No,” Mia said. We all sat down except Lydia. “They were here this morning, but they didn’t have anything new. I checked Bruce’s luggage, and only his wallet, phone, and hotel key were missing. Even my wedding band was there. They’re reviewing the security footage again, but so far they don’t have any leads.”

  “Tell me again about when and where Bruce was last seen,” I said.

  “The groomsmen said goodbye to him around one fifteen a.m. and went back to their rooms. That was it.”

  Lydia nodded. “That’s what I heard, too. Please excuse me while I get my meal.”

  “Oh, I can get it, Lydia,” Mia said.

  “No, no,” Lydia protested. “It feels good to be up.”

  “Do you have any idea what happened?” Liz asked Mia after Lydia was out of earshot.

  Mia shook her head. Her eyes were puffy and distant.

  “I really don’t. I don’t think he’d leave her.” She nodded toward the kitchen. “And before the wedding, I thought we were fine, but now I’m questioning everything.”

  “Like what?” I asked. “Were there any red flags or warning signs?”

  “I can’t think of any,” she said. “The wedding was distracting, though, and we didn’t live together. What if I missed something?”

  “Can you think of anyone who had a problem with Bruce? Family, friends, coworkers, anyone?”

  “No. He’s overworked at his dad’s company, PreTechTion. But he likes his job, and he didn’t mention trouble with anyone.”

  After asking about drugs, alcohol, gambling, illnesses, suicide, and other uncomfortable possibilities, we moved on to intimate relationships. “What about exes—for either of you?” I said. “I heard there was one at the reception, but I didn’t get to meet him. Austin something?”

  “Austin was there? I didn’t invite him, but one of our friends probably texted him about Bruce. We broke up a long time ago, but he’s always cared about me. If anything, Bruce has a problem with him. As for Bruce’s exes, they live in Florida. He didn’t have any serious relationships before me, anyway, just short-term things. We met as soon as he transferred to Maryland State.”

  “Would you mind giving us Austin’s contact information, just in case we need to check with him at some point?”

  “I’ll text you his cell number. His last name is Fry, spelled F-r-y. He lives in King County. I’m not sure where.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “What does Lydia think?” Liz asked.

  “She’s as shocked and worried as I am, if not more.”

  “What about the whole medium thing?” I whispered. “Can that help?”

  “I don’t know. I sure hope so. It might be all we’ve got.”

  Mia gave me a tour of Bruce’s well-appointed condo, and I made the most of it, peeking into his medicine cabinet and closets and complimenting photos in which Mia’s California-girl looks contrasted with Bruce’s dark hair and hazel eyes. The only standout was a giant TV in his bedroom and a collection of DC Bandits football memorabilia that included what looked like another prototype helmet.

  “Bruce is a Bandits freak,” Mia said. “I know it sounds crazy, but on top of everything else, he wouldn’t miss today’s game. He wanted to see it here, where no one would interrupt.”

  “Were you planning to watch with him?”

  “No. He gets really emotional about games, so I make myself scarce. Today would have been an exception. I was planning to open wedding gifts and write thank-you notes while he watched.”

  “My dad was like that,” I said. “We’d leave the house, or he would, during games.” It was one of the few times I’d heard him curse.

  We headed back to the living room, where Lydia and Liz were waiting.

  At Mia’s request, Liz said a brief prayer, and we ate subs while Lydia sipped her “meal”—a probiotic-rich, lactose-free drink. I was uncomfortable eating in front of her, but she insisted she was used to it, and she didn’t want to be alone.

  I wished Liz and I had discussed the medium issue on the way over. She believed in life after death, but chatting with the dead might be another story.

  “Lydia,” I said, “I understand you’re a medium, and I don’t know exactly how that works, but could it help with finding Bruce?”

  “I appreciate your asking,” she said. “I hope so, but it’s rare for me to get messages about family members. Leading up to the wedding, though, I’d been blessed with an unusual sense of peace. I thought it was about my transplant, but now I don’t know. I hope it means Bruce is okay.”

  That didn’t relieve me; it freaked me out. What if it meant Bruce was resting in peace? I looked at Mia with concern, but she was staring at the fireplace, in her own world.

  “Nicki,” Lydia said. “I actually started sensing something right before you arrived. What does the letter J mean to you?”

  Uh-oh. I didn’t want to fall for a medium trick. J was probably the most common letter in names. It certainly was in my family. Jason. Jack. And John, my late father. I looked at Liz, whose hands were tightly folded in her lap. She arched a brow as if to say, This is awkward. What are you going to do about it?

  I felt like saying, “Well, J is probably for Jesus, and He’s coming through for my aunt,” only because I was desperate to discuss anything other than Jason—not to mention my late father, a retired pilot and extraordinary “Grampy” to my kids. For now, I pictured him flying the friendly skies. Just looking up made me feel connected.

  “J means a lot to me,” I said. “I don’t even know where to start. Why do you ask? Specifically, I mean.”

  “Well there’s a male energy related to the letter J coming forward, and I think it’s for you.”

  “I don’t think…” I started.

  “I’m sorry. Excuse me,” Lydia interrupted. She bolted out of the room, down the hall, and into Bruce’s bedroom. I looked at Mia, who had snapped to attention.

  “She’s in Bruce’s bathroom,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  “Do you think I offended her?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. It’s her illness. Do you know about it?”

  Liz and I looked at each other and nodded yes.

  “It’s horrible,” Mia continued. “She can leave the house for short trips, but she always needs to be near a bathroom, preferably a private one. Some days are worse than others. That’s why she couldn’t attend the wedding. She says it’s worse than chemo, and a transplant is her best hope. They’ve tried a few medications, including some really expensive ones, and they help, but not enough.”

  Liz made the sign of the cross and closed her eyes momentarily. Mia and I knew her well enough to stay silent, respectful of the occasional prayers she said throughout the day. I appreciated the chance to join in.

  “Maybe we should go,” I said when Liz was done.

  “No,” Mia insisted. “This is exactly why you should stay.”

  Before I could ask more about the transplant, my phone buzzed. I peeked at it and saw a text from Dean.

  On the way up with Bruce’s dad. Will explain when I get there. He wants to hire us. Play it cool.

  Play it cool? I wanted to give Dean the benefit of the doubt, but why would he surprise me like this, especially with Bruce’s father?

  I relayed the general message to Mia and Liz.

  “Hang on,” Mia said. She picked up her cell phone, tapped it a few times, and looked at me. “I got an email from Bruce’s dad earlier, but I didn’t see it ’til now.” She took a moment to read it. “He’s coming from the police station, and he wants to hire you and Dean.” She glanced toward the bathroom and leaned in close. “He can definitely afford it, so I hope you’ll accept.”

  If he was so wealthy, why wouldn’t he pick more experienced investigators? I�
�d handled exactly one missing persons case, and with all due respect to Dean, his area of expertise was cool spy stuff, not lost grooms. And speaking of Dean, how on earth did he end up with Bruce’s dad?

  “I’m not sure…” I began.

  The doorbell rang, and Mia hurried to answer it.

  “Frank’s here with company,” she called out to Lydia.

  I tidied our leftovers and forced a smile as Dean entered with Frank, a short, Daddy Warbucks type with a shaved head, shiny shoes, and snug, dark suit. He walked quickly toward us and held out a hand.

  “Nicki, Liz,” Frank said, his handshake so tight I couldn’t wait for it to end. He hugged Mia briefly and asked, “Where’s Lydia?”

  “She’ll be right out,” Mia said.

  “Lydia and I split when Bruce was little,” Frank explained to me and Liz. “But when the going gets tough, we’re still a team.”

  I didn’t think it could get much tougher. I told him how sorry I was about the circumstances.

  Dean glanced at the couch, and Mia invited everyone to sit.

  “Look,” Frank said. “I asked Dean here because the police are on this, but you two were there last night. You talked with a lot of people, and I want your input. Plus, Nicki’s personally invested, right?” He didn’t give me time to answer. “Dean, what’s your typical fee?”

  “I appreciate your confidence in us,” Dean started. “But I can refer you to PIs who are better suited for this kind of work.”

  “Great. Maybe I’ll hire them too. But you’ve got a head start. What’s your fee? I’ll pay it plus ten percent.”

  “Well, for this kind of case, I’d request a six-thousand-dollar retainer and two hundred dollars per hour, plus costs.”

  “Done,” Frank said. “Nicki?”

  I was speechless. Dean’s quote sounded high (like maybe he was on something), but I didn’t want to look like an idiot, and asking for time to think would probably annoy all-business Frank. I quoted slightly lower fees and added a caveat about my limited availability due to parenting, which for some reason made Frank smirk.

  If he hadn’t sealed the deal with bone-crushing handshakes so quickly, I might have backed out. I also regretted not chatting privately with Dean first. I didn’t like how he jumped on the case without consulting me.

  “What’s going on?” Lydia asked suspiciously when she returned.

  “Frank hired Nicki and Dean to look for Bruce,” Mia explained. “Are you okay?”

  “Excuse me,” Frank interrupted as he stood and straightened his jacket. “I’ve got to head out.” Apparently, “when the going gets tough” only applied to Bruce-related problems. He showed no interest in Lydia’s medical update. “Can I walk you out, Dean? I’d like to have a word with you. I’m sure Nicki needs to get filled in here.”

  “Sure,” Dean said, towering over Frank as he stood. “Nicki, call me this afternoon so we can discuss the details.”

  “Of course,” I said, thinking, Darn right I will.

  Dean and Frank made their way out, and Lydia apologized.

  “Frank thinks money solves everything,” she mumbled. “And I’m proof it doesn’t.”

  “I hope this isn’t too personal,” I said, “but would money help you get a transplant?”

  “It pays for my medical treatment and testing,” she said. “But it can’t find me a donor or speed up the process.”

  Liz peppered her with questions, such as how long the donor testing took (hopefully less than a week), what the tests were for (mostly transmittable diseases, such as HIV and hepatitis), why they were scheduled so close to the wedding, and what would happen if the transplant was canceled.

  “Worst-case scenario, I could die,” Lydia said bluntly. “But right now, I’m just suffering. Some doctors see these transplants as a last resort, so I had to wait until now, after trying almost everything else, to get this done.”

  She and Liz seemed unusually comfortable talking about such a difficult subject.

  “There’s another option,” Mia said. “But I don’t know if you want to discuss it.”

  All eyes turned to Lydia, who thought for a moment before saying, “It’s okay.”

  Mia bit her lip. “Well, the transplant can be done at home, without a doctor. That means it could be done without testing, so it could happen more quickly. But obviously, there are different risks.”

  “Who would be the donor?” Liz asked.

  “Lydia wanted a close biological relative, but right now, that’s not possible. So if worse comes to worst, I’ll do it,” Mia said. “It’s what Bruce would want. He was so close to being approved and doing it himself. I already made an appointment for testing, in case we can wait for my results. If not, we’ll do it without them. I just hope everything comes back normal. You don’t have to be a match, like with other transplants. You have to meet certain health criteria, though, even to get tested.”

  “You’re perfectly healthy, sweetheart,” Liz said.

  “Well, some people carry C. diff and other stuff without symptoms,” Mia said. “I’m worried about that.” She rubbed her temples and wiped her eyes, which were filling with tears. “This is really too much. I’m sorry, Lydia.” She sniffed. “We need Bruce.”

  At this point, “we” included me. Where are you? I asked, as if Bruce could hear me or respond. After meeting Lydia, I wasn’t so sure that was impossible.

  Before leaving Bruce’s condo, I suggested that Mia gather certain things any investigator would want, much of which she’d already given the police, such as the best possible description of Bruce when he was last seen, including clothing, accessories, tattoos, or other body marks; personal information, such as bank accounts, credit card numbers, medications, and general health; details about his family, friends, associates, possible enemies, and anyone at all suspicious; his computer, social media accounts, and related passwords; locations he frequented and places they’d researched for travel; recent photographs; and names and numbers of anyone involved with the investigation, including hotel security.

  I also encouraged her to be forthcoming about any problems in their relationship or Bruce’s life, no matter how hard that might be—or how trivial they might seem. And I gave her and Lydia my business cards.

  When Lydia took our lunch remains to the kitchen, I carried what she couldn’t, hoping for a moment in private. She apologized for the interruption, and before she could say “J,” I reemphasized my concern for her, Frank, Mia, and Bruce and asked if she sensed any trouble before the wedding.

  She busied herself with cleaning, eyes downcast.

  “He was juggling a lot, including my illness, and I feel guilty about it,” she said. Our eyes met. “Maybe he got overwhelmed. I wouldn’t blame him.”

  “Do you think that’s what happened? That he got overwhelmed and needed an escape?”

  “I wish that was it. Then I’d know he was okay.”

  “What does your gut tell you?”

  She put one hand on her stomach and rested the other on the counter, and I sincerely regretted my choice of words.

  “I told the police that Bruce has a mind of his own,” she said. “But leaving Mia and me on purpose? That’s hard to believe.” She cleared her throat and used a crumpled paper towel to dry her eyes.

  “Lydia, this is hard to ask, but if something happened to you, is there anyone who could benefit?”

  “You’re asking if anyone would benefit from stopping or delaying my transplant? No. I can’t think of anyone. I don’t have much, and Bruce helps me more than I help him. I’m just so afraid something awful happened.”

  “I’m so sorry. The police here are excellent, and I’ll do everything I can to help. You can call or email me anytime.” I placed an extra business card on the counter. “Can I give you a hug?”

 
“I’d love one,” she said. Her bones were so prominent that I made a conscious effort to be gentle. “Thank you so much. Sometimes I feel like a leper with this disease.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “You need people around you.”

  “I know. I’m just terrified. I don’t want anyone else to suffer from this.”

  I froze. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to me that C. diff might be contagious.

  Lydia winced and exhaled slowly. “Excuse me again. I’m sorry.” She sped away, leaving me in concerned silence.

  “Aunt Liz,” I called, doing my own little speed walk. “My babysitter’s expecting me soon. I think we’d better go.”

  Six

  I asked Liz to drive while I read about C. diff for the second time, now with my family’s health in mind. Had Liz and I exposed ourselves to anything dangerous, other than a possible near miss with my late husband Jason?

  Liz was surprisingly calm, perhaps because she visited ill parishioners so often. On a scale from flu to Ebola, I wanted to know where this fell.

  “I never catch anything,” she mused.

  “I catch plenty of what Jack and Sophie get, and I’d like to know what this is—for us and for the case in general.” After a few minutes of intermittent reading and directing Liz to the sub shop where we’d left her rental car, I summarized what I’d learned. “Okay. You can get C. diff the same way you get other intestinal illnesses, by accidentally ingesting it.”

  I looked at Liz, who was nodding distractedly.

  “Anyway,” I continued. “Even if it’s in your system, it might not cause problems. But if you take antibiotics, especially ones that kill lots of good stomach bacteria as a side effect, C. diff can get the upper hand. It’s one of the most common infections people get in hospitals. It can be minor—or life threatening.”