Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2)

by Susan O'Brien

  I decided on the latter, but it was too late. A middle-aged woman with a basket of cleaning supplies walked in. She didn’t look directly at me, but she did something worse. She saw my reflection in the mirror, screamed, and ran.

  Just like with Muffy, chasing seemed to make things worse, but I had no choice. I just prayed she or Eli didn’t have a gun, although that would have been an interesting discovery.

  “Wait!” I called. “I was visiting Eli, and Muffy got out, and I was just returning her. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She stopped in the foyer and held her chest, breathing hard.

  I held out my hands in a peaceful gesture. “Please forgive me. Are you okay?”

  “Where is Mr. Morgan?” she asked.

  “We had a meeting, but he had to go out unexpectedly. It was an emergency, and when he left, Muffy ran out. So I brought her through the kitchen door. It was open.”

  “Why were you in the bathroom?” she asked.

  “I needed to use it,” I lied. “I’m really sorry I scared you. You’re totally safe. I promise.”

  She shook her head and laughed with relief.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t scare Mr. Morgan, with his temper.”

  “His temper?”

  “Oh, never mind. I shouldn’t have said that. He yells if I make a mistake, but it’s my fault. I write down everything now so I don’t mess up.”

  “I doubt his yelling is your fault. When was the last time he lost his temper with you?”

  “Months ago. Please, forget I said anything.”

  I asked a few more questions and confided in her that his “emergency” was being arrested.

  “Mr. Morgan?” she asked, appearing shocked.

  “Yes. Have you noticed anything suspicious?” I asked. “Any signs he might be in trouble?”

  She assured me she hadn’t. She said she only worked once a week, so she rarely saw Eli, which she appreciated. She didn’t even know he’d been gone.

  “I won’t tell him what you said,” I assured her. “If there’s anything the police should know about him, give them a call. They may even be back here soon. I’m looking into his background also, so please get in touch with me too.”

  We exchanged cards, and I let myself out the back door, waving a silent goodbye to Muffy and reminding myself to make sure someone cared for her while Eli was gone.

  I found Dean walking back toward the car, eager to tell me that two neighbors had described Eli as formerly social—often the first to organize a block party or barbeque. But since the time of Andrea’s alleged rape (of which they seemed unaware), he’d become distant and moody, and it had only worsened after his divorce. Both neighbors were curious about the morning’s police activity, but Dean referred their questions to the officer we’d met. Given what he’d learned, the maid’s description of Eli’s temper seemed accurate.

  “That was really risky going back into his house,” Dean said. “We could have taken the dog to the shelter or something.”

  I was more than embarrassed. Curiosity and love for animals had gotten the best of me.

  “You’re right,” I said. “But at least we know Eli has a long-standing temper.”

  “Right. Now let’s go see what his daughter has to say about him.”

  Andrea lived in a large complex of almost identical three-story, ivory buildings. I knocked on her door and stood directly in front of the peephole, not wanting her to see a strange-looking man with me. (Everyone looks strange through a peephole, even Dean.) After two minutes of knocking and waiting, we doubted she was home, so I slipped my card under the door with a note for her to call as soon as possible.

  As we walked down the steps away from her second-floor unit, a door opened behind us. Dean and I looked at each other—and then back at the door—where Andrea was leaning around the jamb, glancing at my card.

  “Hello?” she called.

  “Hi,” I responded. “Thanks for answering.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “We just came from your Dad’s house nearby,” I said. “We were talking with him about his recent trip to Virginia, and he told us how to reach you.”

  “Oh,” she said, stepping out with her keys and phone. “Do you mind if we talk outside? There are some benches out front.”

  Good for her. I didn’t think she should invite us in, either. I needed to overcome my protectiveness, at least of other people, if I wanted to do this job properly.

  “Sounds good,” Dean said.

  We all shook hands and introduced ourselves.

  “I’m surprised my Dad gave anyone my address,” Andrea said as she followed us down the stairs. “Usually he’s ultra-protective, so I almost don’t believe you. What’s this about?”

  “Actually, he only gave us your phone number,” I admitted. “But we wanted to talk to you in person, so we found your address. I hope you don’t mind.” I let her pick a seat, and then I sat beside her. Dean took the bench across from us. “Are you aware of the trip your dad took to Virginia recently?”

  “To see Bruce Fallon? Of course.” She rolled her eyes. “I know my dad cares, but...Why are you looking into it, anyway?”

  So she didn’t know Bruce was missing.

  “Well, sometime after they met, Bruce disappeared.”

  “I’m not surprised. My dad thinks he talked him out of getting married. So he probably just took off.”

  “That’s what your dad told us, too. But later, Bruce’s car was found empty, with evidence of a struggle. Because your Dad saw Bruce around that time, it raises questions about their meeting.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” How many times was I going to say that? Did it even help anyone? I hoped so, because I had to say it again. “And I’m really sorry to tell you this, but while we were talking with him this morning, he was arrested.”

  “What? What do they think he did?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “This is ridiculous. He would never do anything to Bruce other than talk to him.” She didn’t sound convinced. I could almost hear an unspoken would he? at the end of her sentence.

  “Has he left you any messages or anything?”

  “No. I don’t think so.” She looked at her phone and frantically tapped the screen. “No. I don’t have any messages. And I don’t have a landline anymore.”

  “I don’t know much about the booking process, but they’re taking care of it now, and you may hear from him before too long. I think he’s allowed to make a few calls. I don’t think you can see him for a few hours, though.”

  “What should I do?” She looked back and forth between us. “Should I call a lawyer?”

  “Does he have one?” Dean asked.

  “Only a divorce lawyer,” she said. “I mean, that I know of.”

  “Well that’s a starting point,” Dean said.

  “I better go,” Andrea said, standing up. “Thank you for telling me all this.”

  “He wants his ex-wife Suzanne to know, too,” I said.

  “That’s my mom. I’ll call her. She’ll definitely have his lawyer’s number.” Her tone was sarcastic.

  “Andrea,” Dean said, focusing his blue lasers on her. “I know it’s awful timing, but we’d like to ask you a few more questions when things settle down.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I have questions for you, too.”

  I thanked her, apologized again, and watched her go.

  Dean and I called Frank, who hadn’t heard about Eli’s arrest yet. It literally took his breath away. He was almost as stunned about the fifty thousand dollars Eli had mentioned, and he said he’d look into it immediately.

  “Do you have any loose ends in Florida?” he asked.
<
br />   “We do,” Dean said. “We’d like to stay and finish what we started, just in case we come up with anything. An arrest is not a conviction, sir, and our priority is finding your son.”

  Sir was a nice touch.

  “Fine,” Frank said. “And there’s something else you need to know. Don’t call Lydia. She was admitted to the hospital with dehydration this morning. Mia’s with her.”

  “Is she okay?” I asked. “I mean, is it just dehydration, or…”

  “I don’t know, but she needs to focus on her health. The police will update them soon enough. I’m just not sure Lydia can take it, and I don’t know if Mia can keep anything from her.”

  That put me in an awkward position. I wanted to update Mia immediately, but she hadn’t hired us; Frank had. What we learned was only his to share.

  Dean and I stopped at the hotel, combed through crime stats and newspaper websites, ordered pizza, and called Detective Allen, who wasn’t available. I checked on the kids (Jack was tired after a fitful night without Super Teddy), which reminded me of another mistake I’d made: I hadn’t mentioned Muffy to Andrea. It was a small detail, but a valid excuse to call her.

  “Andrea?” I said when she picked up. “It’s Nicki Valentine, the private investigator you met this morning.”

  “Right,” she said. “I got my dad a lawyer, and she’s at the station now. Thanks for letting me know what was going on.”

  “Did you talk with your mom?”

  “Yeah, but she’s not a big help. They don’t talk much since they got divorced.”

  I made sure Muffy was taken care of, and then I broached the subject I wanted to avoid.

  “Andrea, the last thing I want to do is make you think about Bruce, but you said you had some questions for us.”

  “Bruce should be in jail,” she said quietly. “But if he isn’t, I want to know where he is.”

  “Oh,” I said, beginning to understand.

  “I want him as far from me as possible.”

  “That makes sense. Do you think he’d come here?”

  “I’d rather talk to you in person without your partner. You know what I mean? Could we talk alone somewhere?”

  “Sure. Do you have anywhere in mind?”

  “Actually, I do. There’s an outdoor café on the corner of Tally and Main. Do you know where that is?”

  “No. But I can find it. What’s the best time for you?”

  “Five o’clock. It’s called Coconut Coffee.”

  “Great. I’ll be there, Andrea. See you soon.”

  Before the meeting, Dean and I pored over everything we’d found online, starting with the engagement announcement:

  Brenda and Michael Gordon of Lynchburg, Va., announce the engagement of their daughter, Mia Gordon, to Bruce Fallon, son of Frank and Lydia Fallon, of Smyth, Fla., and King County, Va., respectively. Mia is a graduate of Maryland State with a B.S. in communications, and Bruce is a graduate of Maryland State with a B.S. in marketing. The future bride serves on the board of The National Unwed Virgins Association (NUVA), and the future groom is the CEO of PreTechTion, Inc. A November wedding is planned at the The Emerson Inn in King County.

  The announcement had been published in September, two months before the ill-fated wedding.

  Next we scoured Smyth’s sex offense statistics, which showed just four reports over the past five years. At first glance, the school looked safe, but those stats defied logic.

  “Only four sex offenses in five years?” Dean said. “No way. I don’t believe that about any college. Or high school, for that matter.”

  The school’s website explained that student victims of sexual violence could report crimes to the police, the school, or both. Colleges and universities were required to investigate sexual misconduct, although school and public processes—and their potential outcomes—were different. A student found “responsible” by the college for rape, for example, might be expelled. There were potential benefits and drawbacks to either route, and I hoped the school and criminal justice systems worked well together.

  We called Smyth to see if the names of those “responsible” for sex offenses during recent years were public, but they weren’t, so we couldn’t confirm that the school had investigated Bruce for anything.

  The more we read, the more disturbed we became that sexual assaults were not only underreported by students (for understandable reasons, including fear), but also by some schools. A nationwide effort was underway to ensure better reporting by all parties.

  “Listen to this,” I said to Dean. “Some colleges with higher sex offense rates say it’s because they encourage better reporting by students. That actually makes sense.”

  “So these stats are confusing to say the least. A low rate could indicate low reporting, not necessarily low crime.”

  “Right.”

  I checked my cell. No messages, and it was almost four thirty, which meant I needed to leave Dean, request another Super Teddy photo, and find my way to the corner of Tally and Main—and hopefully into a conversation that would reveal the truth about Bruce’s past…and maybe even his present.

  Thirteen

  Coconut Coffee was strategically placed on a busy corner with tempting ads for iced and hot coffee in all flavors and varieties, including decaf, half-caf, full speed, and Autobahn. While waiting for Andrea, I ordered their special—half-caf with ice, sugar, cocoa, and coconut milk. Combined with the drink, the AC gave me goose bumps, so I chose an outdoor table as far from other customers as possible, graciously shaded with a giant green umbrella.

  “Hi, Nicki,” Andrea said when she found me and pulled out her chair. I was glad she’d chosen a cold drink, too.

  “What a place,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I know. I limit myself to once a week. It’s over the top.”

  “How are things going with your dad?” I asked hesitantly.

  “He still hasn’t called, so I’m trying to stay calm. I’m just relieved he has a lawyer with him.”

  I was too. On the way to her apartment earlier, I’d read several articles about being arrested, and they emphasized the importance of staying tight-lipped until a lawyer shows up, even when innocent. Until now, if I’d been wrongly accused, I would have professed it, shared what I knew, and tried to talk people into believing me. Now I considered the potential value of restraint.

  “How do you feel about the lawyer you found?”

  “Good. Supposedly, she’s one of the best, and she’ll call me as soon as she has an update. Or my dad will. So if my phone rings, I have to take it.”

  “Of course.” I’d feel the same way if Liz called, but hopefully she wouldn’t. I’d told her I had a meeting. “Andrea, tell me why you wanted to meet again.”

  “Like I said, I want to know where Bruce is, and if you’re going to find him, you’re my best ally.”

  “Have you kept track of him over the years?”

  “At first I didn’t because he was in college, and I was pretty sure he’d stay there. He needed to graduate if he wanted anyone to take his tech startups seriously.”

  “Was that his goal? Starting tech companies?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  I couldn’t let the conversation go any further without full disclosure.

  “Andrea, I want to help you, but I can’t share anything from my investigation without permission from the person who hired me.”

  “Who is that?”

  “I can’t tell you that yet, either. I’m really sorry.”

  “But your goal is to find Bruce?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed. I’d already told her that much, so I wasn’t giving anything away.

  “Then I want to help. I don’t care who hired you.”

  “What if we fi
nd Bruce, but I can’t tell you where he is?”

  “If you find him, a lot of people are going to know. He’s a missing person. A missing groom. I bet he’s already on the news in Virginia.”

  As far as I knew, Bruce wasn’t a news story, and I wondered why. Publicity might solve the case more quickly than anything else. Then again, if Eli was guilty, maybe the police already knew enough.

  I sipped my drink and gathered my thoughts. In a roundabout way that made sense, Andrea was offering to help. Not to help Bruce. Just to help. I had to accept.

  Andrea wanted to talk, and I was dumbfounded by her ability to recount what had happened without breaking down. I was also determined not to let myself become emotionally overwhelmed.

  The opposite was more than possible. Years earlier, I’d taken a victimology class, and one night the professor showed a movie with a rape scene. Afterward, we divided into small groups, and when it was my turn to speak, tears came out instead of words, and they wouldn’t stop. I had to step out of the room, and the professor followed.

  After I regained control, I told him maybe I was too emotional to work with victims. He argued that empathy was a reason to pursue that work, not avoid it.

  In my short PI career, I’d only spoken with a few victims of major crimes, and although I’d held myself together, I certainly wasn’t qualified to evaluate Andrea’s story. The best I could do was listen with objectivity, self-control, and heart.

  Andrea said she and Bruce met as sophomores at Smyth, and by their junior year, he was a rising leader in his fraternity—the life of the party. Thanks to his privileged background as Frank’s son, he was comfortable dealing with top dogs, both in the frat and in the administration. His looks and charisma got everyone’s attention.