by Debra Webb
“Miss Lane,” the former chief of police said, “I haven’t seen you since you were a little girl.”
“Chief Holcomb.” She walked straight up to him and gave him a hug. “You look as if you’re in your element.”
“I am that,” he agreed. “Got the peace and quiet I was looking for. No more cops and robbers for me.”
Halle smiled. “Chief, this is Liam Hart. He’s here helping me with my investigation into Andy’s case.”
Luther eyed Liam for a long moment. “When I first saw him climb out of your daddy’s truck I thought you’d found Andy.” He cocked his head and studied Liam openly. “You look just like him, Mr. Hart.”
“That’s what they tell me,” Liam said. He figured that was a fair and reasonably safe statement.
“I have a couple of questions for you, Chief, if you have a few minutes.”
He nodded. “’Course. Come on in.” He turned and started back to the door. “It ain’t much but it’s mine and can’t nobody tell me what to do or expect anything from me.”
There was something to be said for that, Liam supposed.
Inside, he and Halle sat on a well-worn sofa while Luther settled into a recliner that looked about as old as he was.
“I’d offer you some of my latest batch of shine but I got a feeling y’all ain’t the type.”
“Thank you,” Halle said, “but I’ll pass.”
Liam held up a hand. “I’m with the lady.”
Luther propped his shotgun against the wall next to his chair. “Fire away, Miss Lane.”
“You should call me Halle, Chief.”
“Well, then you need to call me Luther. I haven’t been the chief in a long time.”
“Luther,” she acknowledged. “I read the case file from when Andy vanished. I’m convinced by what I read that you did all that was possible to find him. My father still sings your praises.”
“Outside the boy’s momma and daddy,” Luther said, “there is no one who wanted to find him more than I did. But it didn’t happen. This was no random abduction. Whoever took him had been watching for a long time, waiting for just the right opportunity. That’s why we couldn’t find him. The kidnapper had paid attention to every detail. Nothing was left to chance.”
Liam thought of the detailed work his father did. When he’d died, Liam had been certain he would never be able to keep the books and operate the winery as meticulously as his father. He certainly would never be as organized as him.
But that didn’t mean anything. His father had been a good man—a great man. He would never have stolen a child under any circumstances. No way. The idea was utterly ludicrous.
For a few minutes, they talked about what was already known, the time and place of the abduction, the way the police chief had investigated it, how interest had waned after a short time and he’d still kept the case open, hoping for a break.
“Mr. and Mrs. Clark hired a private investigator,” Halle said. “Do you recall his name or the names if there was more than one?”
“They did talk to Doc Boone. I don’t know what came of the visit. The Clarks never mentioned it again.” Luther scratched at his chin. “The trouble is Doc Boone died a few years back. But his daughter, Jessie, took over the business. She probably has his files. She’s a year or two younger than you, Halle, so I don’t know how much she’ll recall from the case. Don’t hurt to ask, either way.”
“It does not,” Halle said. She stood. “Thank you so much for helping us out, Luther.”
Liam stood, as well.
“Happy to.” The former chief pushed to his feet.
“If you recall anything that might be useful, please let me know. Chief Brannigan gave you my number, I believe.”
“He did, and I assure you I will.”
Liam and the other man regarded each other a moment but neither said anything.
When they were in the truck once more, Liam asked, “We going to see this Jessie Boone now?”
“We are.”
Liam had changed his flight for one on Monday. He wasn’t sure staying that long was a good idea but it was done now. Might as well make the most of his time here. Prove to these people that he had nothing to hide. And prove to himself that he had always been Liam Hart.
* * *
THE BOONE AGENCY was off the square by one street. Luckily for them the office was open and Jessie Boone was willing to talk.
“Daddy always said that was the worst case of his career,” Jessie said.
She was an attractive lady. Blond hair done up in one of those big hairdos. Her clothes were skintight. She had that sort of brassy, sexy vibe down to a science, and while Liam admired her style, she wasn’t his type.
“It was a tragedy,” Halle agreed.
“I’m happy to pull the case file and show you my daddy’s notes,” she offered, “but I can tell you now there’s nothing there. Luther called and asked me to help y’all out if I could, so I had a look to refresh my memory. Daddy wasn’t one to take people’s money. He only worked on the case a few days and when he didn’t pick up a trail he told the Clarks he wasn’t the man they needed.”
“Do you recall or did your father perhaps annotate who they went to next?”
“He sure did.” Jessie nodded. “Daddy recommended they go to Buster Dean over in Tullahoma. He had a bigger operation than Daddy’s. Back then he had about four fellas working for him. I don’t know about now. But he’s the man you need to talk to.”
Halle thanked the lady and they left the same way they had arrived.
Empty-handed.
Chapter Eight
NOW
Tullahoma
Before driving to Tullahoma, Halle exchanged her dad’s truck for her car. She was more comfortable in her vehicle and had only used her father’s for the rough ride to Holcomb’s place. Once parked at their destination, she and Liam climbed out and walked around the corner to the PI’s business address.
Buster Dean’s office was situated on West Lincoln Street next to London’s Bar and Grill on the corner at North Wall Street. Halle had never had any reason to visit the PI’s office, but she had eaten at London’s numerous times.
Dean’s office was closed. No surprise. It was well after normal business hours. Still, it was disappointing.
“I guess we can try finding his home address and see if he’s there,” she suggested and pulled out her phone to go to an address search website. No luck. A PI would know how to keep his personal info private.
“Nothing,” she said to Liam. She nodded toward the restaurant. “Maybe someone next door will know him well enough to have his home address.” She started toward London’s. The trouble was, that person might not be willing to give out the info.
Only one way to find out.
London’s was already packed. It was Friday night, after all. The vintage venue was chock-full of charm with its wood floors and exposed brick walls. A waitress, young, brunette and dressed like a model, approached and asked how many in their party for seating purposes. She glanced at Halle but her gaze settled on Liam and stayed there.
“Actually,” Halle said drawing the other woman’s attention from Liam, “I’m trying to locate Mr. Dean. His office is already closed and it’s urgent that I see him. Do you think your manager might know his cell phone number or his home address? I’m a reporter and we’re doing a story on his legendary history in the world of private investigations.”
The woman blinked once, twice. “I’ll ask her.”
She turned and disappeared into the dimly lit sea of tables.
“Did you learn to improvise like that in reporter school?”
Halle met his wary gaze. “I learned that long before, but I’ve honed the skill over the years.”
His eyes narrowed, telegraphing his suspicion and impatience.
“Don’t
worry, I would never improvise with the important stuff. Everything I’ve told you and shown you is the truth to the best of my knowledge.”
He looked skeptical still, but he said nothing.
The waitress returned with another woman, this one older and far more harried-looking. She wore black slacks with a white boyfriend-style shirt, the collar turned up. Her dangly silver earrings bounced against the white cotton. “I’m Kelly Kessler, the manager tonight,” she said. “How can I help you?”
Halle restated her improvised mission, infusing as much excitement into her tone as possible. She even added, “I understand London’s is one of his favorite hangouts.”
The woman grinned. “For more than forty years now.”
“Great,” Halle enthused. “That’s the kind of detail that will be perfect for my piece.” She frowned then. “Unfortunately, I didn’t make it down from Nashville in time to catch him in the office. It was supposed to be a surprise that he’d been chosen for the feature. Now I’m not sure I’ll be able to find him and I have to submit the story early on Sunday morning.”
“Oh, well, we can’t have Buster missing out on this chance.” She removed a card from her bosom and the pen from behind her ear and started to scribble. “I’ll give you his cell number and his home address. This card has my number on it, so if you have any trouble, call me and I’ll track him down.”
She offered the card to Halle. “Thank you. I will absolutely call you for some more shout-out lines.” She looked around. “This is a great place.”
Beaming, the woman nodded. “Happy to help.”
Halle thanked her and returned to the car. When they’d climbed in, she called the cell number and the call promptly went to voice mail. “Motlow Road it is,” she announced, starting the car. She would not be defeated just yet.
Highway 55 led out of Tullahoma proper and it only took a few minutes to reach Motlow Road. Tullahoma was a nice town. Home to Motlow College and boasting its share of historic sites, golfing, boating and even a few tourist attractions like the George A. Dickel & Company Whiskey Distillery.
“Have you heard of this PI?” Liam wanted to know.
“I’ve heard the name over the years, generally related to some court case. Dean has been around the block a number of times. My father could probably tell us more about him. He falls into the category of men who people don’t fully trust but they go to him when they need the kind of help only he can provide. But I’ve been gone for a while, so his reputation might be different now.”
“Do you plan to stay? In the area?”
She glanced at him; he was watching her. Had been. She’d felt his gaze on her. “I don’t know yet. Maybe. My parents are getting older and I’m all they’ve got.” She shrugged. “I’ve always thought about writing a novel. My job here would allow plenty of time for that.”
“Like your Aunt Daisy?”
Halle smiled. Surprised that he remembered. “Sort of, but I think I’d prefer true crime.”
“What?” he asked. “You don’t believe in romance? One failed marriage and you’re ready to throw in the towel?”
Now, there was a tough question—two actually. “I do believe in romance. I look at my parents and I can’t not believe in romance. It’s basic. In our genetic makeup. But my writing interests run more to the kind of reporting I’ve done in recent years. Homicides. Missing persons. That sort of thing.”
“So this is just another story for you.”
She slowed for the turn onto Motlow Road. “No.” She glanced at him again. “Not at all. This is about finding the truth. This is about a part of my life.”
He didn’t say more. Good thing. Halle needed to focus on the house numbers that were listed on the mailboxes. The houses were set too far back from the road for the numbers to be visible on the home’s front door.
Buster Dean lived in a midcentury modern sort of farmhouse with all the typical architectural lines of the era but with board and batten siding and a metal roof. There was a barn and fencing for horses and, from the looks of the property, a good number of acres.
Halle hoped there were no dogs that might bite strangers.
She got out of the car. Liam did the same. Silence crowded in around them. No barking dog, thankfully. No sound of work being done somewhere on the property. Just the peace and quiet of country living. No one was around. Not what Halle had hoped for.
They crossed the yard uneventfully. A half dozen or so hard knocks on the front door and the silence still echoed in the air. No sound inside, either; at least none she could hear.
“Maybe he’s out with friends,” Liam commented. “Or on a case.”
“Apparently. I’ll try his cell again later.” She surveyed the yard. “For now, it’s back to Winchester, I guess.”
More of that silence followed them out of the driveway and back to Winchester. Twenty minutes of no words, just the occasional sigh, mostly from her, and a little traffic noise as they maneuvered through evening commuters. She was glad there were no reporters holding vigil outside her house or the Clarks’.
When they had pulled into her drive, he said, “Maybe I should get my rental car out of the Clarks’ driveway.”
“No rush. It’s probably a good thing that it’s there. People will think someone is home.”
He didn’t argue. Instead he followed her up to her apartment.
“Several of the restaurants in town deliver. What’s your preference? American? Chinese? More Mexican?”
“You pick,” he said.
“Chinese it is, then.”
Halle left her bag on the sofa and made the call. When she tossed her cell onto the coffee table, she said, “Forty minutes.”
He looked around as if uncertain what to do next.
“Have a seat and we’ll hash out what we learned today.”
“Did we learn something?” He dropped onto the sofa.
She joined him, with an entire cushion between them. “We learned—” she picked up her cell and opened the photos app “—that Nancy Clark believed you to be her missing son.” She passed him the phone with the photos she had snapped during their search of the boxes in Nancy’s bedroom.
He swiped through the photos of him from various times in his life, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know why she had someone watching me,” he finally said. “I am not Andy.” He passed the phone back to Halle.
Her shoulders slumped. “How can you still dismiss the idea? These photos are you. They were taken by a woman whose son looked exactly like you in his childhood photos. One coincidence I could buy, but two? As a child, you could have been Andy’s twin. You had a dog—an identical dog—named Sparky. Come on. She probably sent you that newspaper because somehow she knew who you were.”
“You can’t be certain she sent it,” he argued.
“You know she did. It’s the only reasonable explanation.”
“There is nothing reasonable about this, Halle.” His jaw had gone rigid, blue eyes icy with tension. “Don’t you think I would remember if I was abducted when I was seven years old? It doesn’t make any sense. What are you going to suggest next? That my father did some sort of brainwashing technique?”
“I’ve done my research, Liam,” she said calmly. She wasn’t some rookie or a fool. “Most memories up to the age of seven are forgotten. The few that linger beyond that age are hardly ever reflective of reality. They’ve been reshaped into something that fits whatever your life is at that point. So the answer is no. Particularly with a little coaching, you likely wouldn’t remember your childhood here if you were removed from it for the rest of your life.”
“Come on. You’re saying I was taken and suddenly I stopped being Andy Clark and started being Liam Hart? Give me a break.”
“Of course I’m not saying that. It would take time and work. But you have mentioned plenty of memories of whe
n you were eight. By then you were settled in, fully convinced home was where you were.”
He shook his head. “I can’t buy it.”
“Will you believe DNA? You did say you’d willingly leave a sample for the test.”
“Sure. Why not? The sooner I can put this behind me, the better.”
Halle wished she could save him the wasted effort of pretending. He was Andy Clark. There was no other option.
“I’ll call Chief Brannigan and see if he can set it up. That way it’s official.”
“Great.” The sarcasm that accompanied the word made her flinch.
He was tired, frustrated and no doubt confused. Halle gave him grace for those reasons when what she wanted to do was shake him.
* * *
LIAM WAS READY TO RUN outside and down the stairs to yell at the top of his lungs. My name is Liam Hart. I am not Andy Clark.
Except...there were some things that needed to be cleared up. Like why that poor murdered lady had someone taking pictures of him for her. And why Sparky used to be Andy Clark’s dog. Or at least a dog that looked exactly like Sparky.
Jesus Christ, he felt like he was in an episode of The Twilight Zone. He kept waiting for someone to wake him up from this crazy dream.
His gaze lit on Halle as she answered the door. Was the food here already? He blinked and watched as she paid the delivery guy. He should have done that, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak up or to even move. He was stuck in this in-between place that felt completely wrong but somehow strangely right.
Some part of him felt a connection to this clever reporter. Maybe it was just plain old desire, considering he had been too busy for a social life—much less a sex life—for a few months now. Maybe it was nothing more than basic nature.
Except it felt like more. In the past twenty-four hours his instincts had drawn him closer and closer to her. He felt like he’d known her his whole life. He refused to tell her as much. Hell, she was already fully convinced that he was this Andy Clark.
