by L C Hayden
The old man let out a small laugh. “That, I did. Still do.” He pointed to the plush couch. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
Bronson sat.
“I’m twenty-six years older than your sister. My own children, some older than Lorraine, called me a dirty old man. But the thing was, Lorraine made me feel young. She liked me for who I am, not what I am.”
Bronson’s eyebrows furrowed. “Liked you?”
“Yes, liked, not loved.” He sighed. “She never pretended otherwise. Thing is, she was in love with someone else. Never told me who and I never asked. But I accepted her choice. We were together a lot, and she made me laugh, made me feel good about myself. She never asked for anything. I’m the one who willingly gave her all the creature comforts she had.”
“You bought her the house she lived in, and you paid the utilities and all the other bills.”
Wellington nodded.
“And in return, what did you get?”
“The pleasure of her company. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
Bronson digested the information. “What can you tell me about the man she loved?”
Wellington wet his lips and looked away. “Not much.”
“How do you know he even existed?”
“I could tell. I knew Lorraine probably better than anyone else. I could tell when she was thinking about him, which was most of the time.”
“And that didn’t upset you? Make you jealous, perhaps?”
Wellington rolled his chair away from Bronson and planted himself in front of the window. The view revealed an Olympic-size pool with life-size statues of Greek women emptying their vases into the pool. Further on out, tennis courts sat, empty and desolate. “You want to know if I was jealous.” A long pause followed. “Yes, it’s only natural, but I didn’t act on those feelings. I didn’t get to be Mr. Steel by giving in to impulses.” His fingers played with the folds of the blanket. He remained quiet.
Bronson let the minutes pass before he got up and stood facing the same window Wellington did. “Beautiful view out there.”
“Yes.”
“Did my sister swim in that pool?”
“Occasionally. She preferred this room. She loved her music. She even made me this blanket.” He stroked the blanket, which was decorated with musical notes and symbols. He raised it up so that it covered him from his waist down.
“Nice blanket.”
“It is.”
What else didn’t he know about his sister? “She played the piano?”
“Like a pro.”
Silence reigned and Bronson felt comfortable with that. He watched Wellington’s fingers as he continued to quickly fold and unfold the edge of his blanket. “Now tell me what you’ve been avoiding telling me.”
Wellington’s lips formed a thin line. “You’ve only been here less than an hour, and you can already read me. Just like Lorraine.” He turned and stared at the piano. “Just like Lorraine,” he repeated. He looked up at Bronson. “She left me, you know, one time, for almost a year. That really hurt, not so much that she walked out, but that she wouldn’t come to me in her time of need.”
“Where did she go?”
“She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
Exactly what Bronson thought he was going to answer. “But you knew anyway. You made it a point to find out.”
Wellington covered his eyes. Slowly, he nodded. “She had a baby.”
Bronson gasped.
“Unfortunately, not mine,” Wellington continued. “Prior to her walking out, she spent a lot of her time with Matthew Devono, her ex-pimp. Then one day she and Mario Serafin took off and vanished from the face of the earth.”
Bronson’s eyebrows moved infinitesimally. “Mario Serafin?” His voice came out as a coarse murmur.
“I assume you know him.”
“The waiter at the restaurant?”
“Don’t let that fool you. Serafin is Devono’s right-hand man, but he waits tables occasionally so that Devono can give him a glorified, but legal, paycheck.”
“You think Serafin’s the father?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m simply giving you the facts as I know them. She and Serafin took off together and when she came back, there was no baby, only that hollow, empty look that lasted for months.”
“What became of the child?”
“If the baby ever existed, I couldn’t tell you its whereabouts.”
“How old would that baby be now?”
“A teenager, I suppose.” Wellington rubbed the bridge of his nose. “All I know is that Lorraine’s love for . . . for that man never diminished. But she came back to me, and I was satisfied.”
Bronson, like a sponge absorbing water, took in the room’s contents. The grand piano, now silent. An electric guitar, a violin, music sheets on each of the stands, plush furniture, a chandelier. All the money in the world couldn’t buy Wellington what he wanted the most, Lorraine’s love. “Thank you for being honest with me.”
“I’ll have my secretary cut you a check for thirty-thousand dollars.”
“What for?”
“Lorraine told me you were a cop.”
Something else Lorraine knew about him. How?
Wellington continued, “A great cop, at that. I’m hiring you to find her killer.”
“I’m retired now, and I don’t have a private eye license.”
“But you have the will and determination to bring the bastard to justice.”
“And I promise you I will.”
“Then take the money for business expenses.”
“I’m not sure I can do that.”
“Then I will send you a VISA card. You can charge your meals, your gasoline—anything you want. To solve a case like this, you’re going to need a lot of money.”
Bronson took one last look at the room his sister loved and headed out.
“One more thing,” Wellington said.
Bronson stopped but didn’t turn around.
“You remind me a lot of your sister. Your attitude, your mannerisms—those also belonged to Lorraine.”
Bronson closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Thanks for seein’ me.” The more he learned about his sister, the less he knew her.
Don’t leave me.
Chapter 12
Bronson sat in the Chevy Cruze, trying to conjure a mental image of Lorraine. Tough on the outside, soft on the inside, and full of contradictions. You remind me a lot of your sister. Bronson shook his head as though trying to clear the image. He reached for the ignition key and drove away.
He needed to go back to his sister’s house. He stopped at the stop sign, the house now several blocks away. He adjusted the rear view mirror and spotted a maroon-red Aston Martin more than a block behind.
Surely, while searching Lorraine’s house, the troopers and he missed something that at the time didn’t seem important. If he took his time, emptied every drawer . . .
He looked at the rear view mirror once again. The classic sports car had sped up and was approaching fast. Bronson changed lanes. So did the Aston Martin. A coincidence? Bronson didn’t believe in them. He executed a right and so did the maroon-red car.
Bronson sped up, made a sharp right, and pulled in behind some parked cars. He let the engine run. Seconds later, the Aston Martin turned, the squeaking tires announcing its urgency. The car sped past Bronson’s parked Cruze and then slowed down as though looking for him.
Bronson pulled out into the traffic lane and soon caught up with the pursuer. Half a block later, the sports car driver tapped the brake pedal several times in quick successions before turning on the right hand signal.
Bronson got the message. He was to follow the car into the strip mall’s parking lot.
Bronson executed a right and placed his car so that it faced the classic car. With the engine still running, Bronson waited for the driver to get out. He scooted down into the seat, enabling him to see and at the same time making himself a small target.
The Aston Martin’s door slowly opened and a woman in her early forties stepped out. She wore high heel shoes and a bright blue dress that revealed every curve she had and those she didn’t.
Not your typical pursuer, but experience had taught Bronson not to trust anyone. Bronson opened the door to his car. “Step away from the car and put your hands up.”
The woman hesitated for a moment and then did as told. “I’m Amanda Wellington. You just talked to my dad.”
“What do you want?”
“I need to talk to you. I mean you no harm.”
The parking lot swarmed with people, and cars constantly flew by on the busy street. Odds were in his favor. No one in their right mind would shoot with so many witnesses around. He turned off the engine and stepped out. “Put your hands down. Sorry about that. I had no way of knowing.” Except for the Aston Martin. He left that part out.
Amanda lowered her arms. “We need to talk. Is there a place we can do that instead of this damn parking lot?”
Bronson scanned the strip mall’s buildings. One read “Lisa’s Place: Coffee and Pastries.” What luck.
Chapter 13
The man rubbed his chin as he sat waiting for his boss to finish with the meeting. Although several other people also waited—some longer than he had—he knew he’d be next. He’d done this hundreds of times before. So why was he a bundle of nerves this time? He rubbed his chin faster.
The woman sitting across from him looked at him and squinted, her eyebrows slightly arched downward. By rubbing his chin he had attracted her attention, making himself stand out in a room filled with people.
Definitely not a good idea. He placed his hand under his leg and forced himself to relax.
The door opened and his boss along with two men, both dressed in suits, stepped out. As they shook hands, the boss glanced at him and indicated the office.
The man raised his hand to rub his chin, remembered not to, stood up, and waited for his boss to step in before he did.
The boss waved goodbye at the two men and turned to the small crowd of people waiting their turn. “Thank you for coming. I hope you gave my secretary your name. As always, I’ll be seeing you in the order you arrived.” The boss reached for the doorknob and smiled. “This won’t take long.”
The man rubbed his chin as he closed the door behind them.
The boss turned to the man who stood at attention toward the entry way, walked around the desk, and sat down. “Relax, will ya?” A small pause followed. “So what’s up?”
“I did as you told me. I checked up on Bronson.”
“Yeah, and?”
“His reputation as a stubborn detective follows him. He won’t rest until he solves his cases. He was one of Dallas’ best.”
“Are you saying he’s going to be a problem?”
He nodded.
“Then take care of him.”
“It’s not that easy.” The man rubbed his chin, saw the irritation in the boss’ eyes, and stopped. “First Lorraine, then her brother. Too much of a coincidence. The troopers won’t swallow that.”
“Couldn’t a car accident take care of our little problem?”
“I’ll use that as a last resort.”
The boss leaned forward. “What do you have in mind?”
“My plan will eliminate Bronson, but to do so, my idea requires your full co-operation.”
The boss inhaled deeply while the eyes drilled the man who sat on the other side of the huge desk. “Tell me about it.”
Chapter 14
A twinge of pride swelled within Bronson. Carol was nowhere around and he had put only one-and-a-half spoons full of sugar in his coffee. Too bad Carol was so far away and couldn’t share his triumph. Too bad because he missed her.
Too bad about so many other things.
He forced his mind to clear and focus on the woman sitting across from him. Somewhere a rich cosmetic surgeon had given her the teen-like skin that she’d wear for the rest of her life, or at least until his services were needed again. Narrow eyes offset her tight skin and filled the air with a sense of exotic beauty. Her eyes missed little but did a great job of luring in those around her. Her pinkie finger elevated as she stirred her latte or whatever fancy coffee she had bought. Cancel that. No such thing as fancy coffee existed. “So you wanted to talk to me.” Bronson sipped his plain, not-so-sweet, almond-brown coffee.
“Yes, Mr. Bronson, I do.”
“You can drop the mister. Most everyone calls me Bronson.”
She cleared her throat and shifted positions. “I suppose you can call me Amanda.”
I’ll call you Mandy and knock the socks off your pretty panty-hosed legs. Bronson stirred his coffee even though he had already done that. He raised his cup, smelled its sweet aroma, and took a sip. “Ms. Amanda.” He emphasized the Ms. part. “What can I do for you?”
“Ever hear of François La Carcé?”
Sounded like a stuffy name. “Can’t say I have.”
“He’s an up and coming artist who lives in an artist community in a remote part of France. He’s a recluse and devotes all of his time to art which is his only passion.”
That explained the name. “I wish him luck.”
“Which he doesn’t need, especially from a commoner like you. His income per month is way above what you would ever hope to make in a year. It’s already in the high five-figure amount.”
“Must be nice for him.” Or at least this commoner thinks so.
A young couple, she with long black hair that cascaded past her waist and he with a mop of curly blond hair, sat at the table next to them. Amanda frowned and turned her back to them. She shouldn’t have bothered. They were too engrossed in each other. Amanda said, “Sweet, dear François did a painting for us as an heirloom. He gave it to my father. I’m sure we could sell it right now for a cool million dollars. Imagine if we keep it as an investment for a few more years.”
“Imagine.”
Amanda’s lips formed a tight line across her face and as unlikely as it seemed, her eyes narrowed even further. “Your sister stole the painting from us.”
Bronson put on his best poker face that had fooled people many times. He reached for his coffee, slowly sipped it, and set the cup down. “And you can prove this.”
“Mr. Bronson, I want my painting back.”
Bronson’s left brow shot up. “Don’t you mean your father’s painting?”
Amanda stood up with such abruptness that her chair would have fallen had Bronson not caught it. “You have twenty-four hours to hand me that painting.”
“Before what?”
Amanda glared at him and stormed out of the café.
*****
The woman with the long, black hair who sat at the table behind the one that Bronson and Amanda had occupied moved away from the man she had been kissing. She watched as Bronson headed out. “Should we follow him?”
The blond headed man shook his head. “We’ll be too obvious. If Bronson’s got any brains, and based on all of our reports, he has more than his share—he’s bound to make us.”
The black haired beauty frowned. “We can’t just let him drive away. He’s going to lead us to the painting.”
The blond man swept the tip of her nose with his index finger and winked. “I’m not stupid. I have no intention of losing him. My brother can follow him and report his whereabouts. We’ll take it from there.”
She reached for her cell and made the call.
Chapter 15
Bronson sat in the Cruze, his lips a tight line, his unblinking eyes focused straight ahead, his mind not registering any images. His hands formed fists, then opened, then formed fists once again.
Lorraine. A common thief.
No. She had changed. He had to believe that. She had outgrown her wild youth. He reached for his cell and punched in some numbers. He heard the phone ring, then: “Wellington Residence.”
“Mr. Wellington, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but—”
>
“Tell him Bronson is calling. He’ll want to talk to me.”
“Just a minute, sir.”
Bronson waited an eternity before he heard someone pick up the phone. “Bronson? Wellington here. Does this mean you’ve decided to accept my offer? What have you got?”
“A question.”
A small pause followed. “Okay. Go ahead.”
“What can you tell me about François La Carcé?”
“He’s a very talented painter, so I funded him some money to set up his studio. In return, he created a breath-taking sea storm painting called Mother Nature’s Anger. He gave it to me as a thank you gift. Why do you ask?”
“Where’s the paintin’ now?”
“I imagine it’s hanging somewhere in Lorraine’s house. Why?”
“Why would Lorraine have the paintin’?”
“I gave it to her.”
Bronson let out the air he didn’t know he held. “You gave her the paintin’?”
“That’s what I said. Why are you asking this? Has it been stolen?”
“I have no idea. I’m on my way to her house.” Bronson started the car and blended with the traffic. “Last time I was there, I didn’t see it, but I wasn’t lookin’.”
“What’s so important about the painting, and this time answer my question.”
“Amanda cornered me after I left your house.”
Wellington sighed. “Oh, Mandy.” A slight pause followed. “Let me guess. She wants the painting back.”
“She does.”
“Don’t give it to her. It belonged to Lorraine, and I suppose it now belongs to you or whomever she left it to in her will.”
“She had a will?”
“That, I wouldn’t know.”
A car cut in front of Bronson and he had to stamp on the brakes. Inside, he cursed the driver. Outside, he forced civility in his tone. “Thank you for the information.”
“It didn’t come without a price tag.”
“Meanin’?”
“When you get to her house, I want to know if you find the painting.” His voice sounded far away. Bronson guessed he was worn out.
