Blood Ties (24 page)

“How?” I said fi nally, my voice still shaking from recent events. “We’ve spent the last two weeks unsuccessfully tracking the movements of one sixteen-year old girl. What makes you think we’ll have any luck fi guring out who killed Shelley? Especially when the cops think it was suicide?”

“For that reason.” Kevin peeled his fi ngers from the death grip he had on the steering wheel before he faced me.

“Look. If the person that killed her thinks they got away with faking her suicide, they won’t be expecting anyone to investigate.”

Anyone meaning us. And I’d hoped this was over.

I was puzzled by his fortitude, especially when this 251

wasn’t our case. David LaChance’s dime was up, not that Kevin had fi nancial worries. He’d reminded me the thrill wasn’t always in the chase but in small things, like the minute a client’s check cleared the bank. David’s check had cleared long ago. So, why his change of heart? “Kevin, no one is paying us to do this.”

“I know. Let’s just call this my version of a pro-bono case.”

“Why?”

He stared at me for a long, long time, but not through me, which was a nice change of pace. “I can’t stand the thought of someone getting away with it. Maybe someone we know.”

“What do we do now?”

“I’ve been thinking. We talk to Troy James.” A BMW

pulled in next to us, momentarily distracting him. “Rather, while I’m talking I want you doing something else.”

“What?”

“Remember those log books that everyone has to sign in at the rehab center? If someone visited Shelley after you did, there’d be a record.”

I tapped my temple. “Good thinking. But I’m supposed to waltz in there and wrestle it from the TAR on duty?”

He frowned. “What’s a TAR?”

“Trained Attack Receptionist. Come on, you know the type.” I mimicked, “ ‘Do you have an appointment?

Can I see some ID? Are you a member of the family?’ Th e

252

last woman whisked the book out of sight the minute I dotted the ‘i’ in Collins.”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Th

en, we’ll go during lunch

when they close the offi

ce down for an hour.”

“How do you know that?” I demanded.

“Meredith told me she drove out there on her break from school and no one was around. Th

e receptionist’s

offi

ce was locked and dark. She had to come back later in the afternoon.”

“Hmm.” I leaned against the car door; the plastic handle dug painfully into my back so I knew this wasn’t yet another bizarre dream. “But I’m sure everything is locked up tight. No way could we get in there.”

A small smile appeared and he shook his fi nger in front of my nose. “Never say never.”

“You aren’t proposing . . .”

He shrugged. “It can be done.”

Kevin?

Planning
to break the law? My gasp rivaled that of a swooning gothic heroine. “You?”

“Yes, me,” he mocked. “I’m not as squeaky clean as you imagine, Jules.”

“Yeah, you’re a real bad boy, all right, Kev.”

“I certainly don’t rival the type of badly behaved men you favor, but I haven’t been a Boy Scout for one helluva long time.”

Yikes. Be still my heart. Yet, I didn’t care for the decidedly wicked gleam in his eyes. “Meaning?”

253

“I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve that might impress even a cynic like you.” His curious gaze studied my shaking fi ngers pleating a tiny crease in my rayon suit pants.

“Besides, it’s time I advanced your PI training. How are your fi ne motor skills?”

Ding, dong the bitch was dead. Which old bitch? Th e

meddling bitch.

His spirits soared. He wasn’t high on life, he was high on death.

Th

e gun oil cleansed his rifl e, and replenished the faith he’d lost. Following a kill, he philosophized; searched his soul for a deeper meaning of what compelled him. If he dug deep enough would he fi nd a shred of his humanity?

Nah.

Th

at well was dark, shallow, and bone dry. Just today he decided life wasn’t a circle, but a dead-end. As he’d proved many times.

He laughed out loud at his own pop psychology, not caring who heard. Th

e sound echoed in the small room,

eerie, crazy as the forlorn cry of a loon. Th e last link to

the past had been broken. Finally, things would return to 255

the way they used to be, to the way they should have been these seventeen years past.

Waiting had been its own reward. Now was the time to reap the benefi ts of his divine intervention. He’d erased all links to that horrid night, save one. And he’d never tell.

He’d make certain.

Would he have to kill again?

God, he hoped so.

The next morning while Kevin charmed and distracted the TAR at the rehab center before his appointment with Troy James, I hid in the bathroom.

Sure enough, ten minutes later, the receptionist’s heels clicked across the beige tile fl oor. I heard the soap dispenser pump before she washed her hands and turned off the lights. I waited another few minutes before jumping off the toilet seat.

I cracked the bathroom door open. Th

e reception

area was empty. Moving quickly in the dark toward the glass partition, I withdrew the slim lock-picking tool concealed in my sock. With the Muzak turned off , it was quiet. Too quiet.

My

fi ngertips dug into the grooved glass window. I tried sliding it open, but it didn’t budge. No big surprise, but I’d hoped for easy access. I made my breathing slow 257

and deep, concentrating on the series of steps Kevin had taught me.

Th

e lock clicked and the window slid open silently.

It’d almost been too simple, but I wasn’t about to dwell on my good luck; it could change any second. I hopped up on the imitation marble counter and duck-walked through the small opening into the offi

ce. Once my feet landed on

the fl oor and no hidden alarms blared, I breathed again. A voice warned me that I’d fi nally crossed the last legal line.

Th

e current log-in book was on the shelf below the window. I unfolded the paper from my back pocket and grabbed a pen. Th

e dates were listed on the top column.

I started at the beginning, noting visitors from each day fi lled as many as fi fteen separate pages. Lotta people with substance abuse problems. Naturally, my body chose that moment for a nicotine craving. Noble of me to ignore it.

I

fl ipped backwards in the logbook, counting to forty-fi ve, scanning pages like a grocery store clerk until I was close. Bingo. My nearly illegible signature leapt out. I matched the visitor’s names across the page to the patients they’d signed in to visit.

Charles LaChance. Shelley Friel. Goosefl esh broke out. Th

e time noted on the entry showed he’d slunk in four hours after my visit. Coincidence? Or, had Shelley called him? With no time to consider, I jotted down the information and moved to the next page.

My hand stopped at the fi nal entry for Monday. Father 258

Tim O’Reilly. Strange, he hadn’t designated a patient. Or, had he seen more than one? Was Shelley on his list? Th e

only way to fi nd out now was to ask him outright. I wrote it down, replacing the pen and the book exactly where I’d found them.

Th

e eerie stillness of the cramped space was getting to me. I kept looking to the front door. Still locked. Th at

didn’t fi ll me with a sense of security when what I was doing was completely illegal. No gray areas here. If it pissed off the sheriff that I’d faked illness and inadvertently discovered a body, what would he do if I got caught breaking and entering? Besides the obvious option of fi ring me?

I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted to get the hell out of here before my bout of nerves caused me to throw up. Kevin had warned me not to leave any evidence behind and I fi gured a warm pile of barf was a dead giveaway.

A quick glimpse of the clock showed I had roughly fi fteen minutes before I had to scurry back and hide in the bathroom. Hanging out in a stinky toilet wasn’t appealing. What else could I fi nd out while I had time to spare?

My gaze landed on the discarded log-in books piled ten high alongside the fi ling cabinet. Since I’d fi gured out the system, and if I was fast, I could list everyone who’d visited Shelley in the last two months.

Crouching down, with one eye aimed at the front door, I skimmed through the most recent books. Sadness pooled in my chest when I noticed that Shelley had had 259

very few visitors. Dick, in the beginning, but nothing in later weeks. Meredith.

My eyes narrowed at the calligraphy fl ares of Nancy James’ handwriting. Nothing covert about that. Apparently she’d visited the fi rst week of Shelley’s admittance. But, Shelley had told us she hadn’t kept in contact with Nancy.

Another chance visit? Or, another one of Shelley’s lies?

Dr. Mike Lawrence. Another pal of Troy James’. I added him to the list.

I kept coming across the name Charles LaChance.

Few of the sign-in visits were with Shelley Friel. Seemed old Chuck got around. But, why would he be trolling for clients in a rehab center?

For fun, I double-checked the other entries. David LaChance. His father, again to see Shelley. Samantha.

Samantha. Her last, hopeful girlish scrawl caused sadness to tear my eyes and sear my soul. Enough. I snapped the book shut.

After restacking the logbooks, I shoved the paper back in my pocket. Did the duck-walk balancing act on the counter, squatting as my back cleared the window track.

One small jump and I made it to safety on the other side.

I’d barely relocked the window, when I heard voices. My pulse spiked and I sprinted to the bathroom.

Once back inside, I waited by the door.

A group of people entered and crowded around the offi

ce window. Th

e minute the receptionist’s back turned, 260

I slipped out unnoticed.

Kevin waited for me in the car. Th

e feeling I’d gotten

away with something left me high, buoyant, and giddy.

Superior. Unfortunately I knew the addictive properties of that rush; jails full of criminals were proof enough. I couldn’t help but grin when I waved the paper in Kevin’s face. “Got it.”

“Any

problems?”

“No. What did you fi nd out from Troy?”

“Not much. Th

e guy is a fucking idiot.” He scowled and turned down the chunky guitar riff s of “Man in the Box.”

“We reminisced. O,r should I say
he
reminisced and I listened to all his previous bouts of athletic greatness. It was pathetic.”

“He didn’t say anything about Shelley?”

“No. Old Troy was pretty tightlipped when it came to that. Did mention it was unlikely the center would get the last installment for her treatment, now that she was dead.”

My eyes widened. Kevin considered that nothing? “He said that out loud?” I knew places like this were money-hungry, but I’d always imagined they’d deny it and claim they’d provide the humanitarian service for free if it were fi nancially feasible. Apparently not.

“Among other things. Also said he might be forced to sue Dick Friel for the remainder.”

“Wanna take bets on who represents the clinic?

Charles LaChance’s name was everywhere out here.” Re-261

vulsion dripped down my spine when I contemplated the man might have a clone.
One
of him was one too many.

“Anyway, I didn’t get a chance to ask him much. He shooed me out right after the question about Shelley. Said he had a lunch date.”

“With

who?”

“His

wife.”

I grinned. “A nooner? With Nancy?”

Kevin looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Yeah, right. Don’t think the Firehouse Restaurant encourages that kind of behavior.”

“At least we know where
not
to have lunch.” I fl uttered the paper in front of his face. “Bonus. I found out Mrs.

James had recently visited Shelley.”

“Get out.” He snatched the paper, managing to keep one hand on the wheel. “Let me see.”

“Anyone else look familiar?”

“Mike Lawrence?” Kevin checked the road and the rearview mirror before redirecting his interest to the names. “I remember him. He hung out with Troy, Bobby, Tim, and Danny.”

“And Jimmer,” I said quietly, pointing to the name mid-page.

He glanced up. “Speak of the devil. Father Tim?”

“Don’t you fi nd it strange he was out here the day after our interview? Off ering Shelley condolences? He didn’t list her, but I’ll bet she was the intended target. What do you 262

think they talked about?”

Kevin tossed the paper in my lap. “Hell if I know, but I’m sick of guessing. I say we track Nancy down fi rst and then Father Tim and fi nd out.”

We sped into town and parked on Main Street directly in front of the Firehouse Restaurant. I watched the door, wishing we were doing surveillance from the inside, while eating a buff alo burger and drinking a pint of their famous stout beer. My stomach rumbled. Seemed breaking and entering created a powerful hunger. Just as I was about to complain, a couple stepped out and paused in front of the red door.

“Th

at’s them,” Kevin said.

After a brief kiss, the stout woman climbed into a gray Mercury Mystique parked six cars away and took off .

We followed. Luckily she didn’t detour to Wal-Mart or the Country Club. She went straight home to a quarter-of-a-million-dollar house on West Boulevard. Did the rehab center off er treatment for addictions to ostentatious displays of wealth? Physician, heal thyself.

Kevin parked in the driveway, and we hurried to catch her as she hustled up the sidewalk.

She was unlocking the massive oak double front door when I called out, “Nancy?”

Th

e keys dropped from the lock and she spun around.

“Yes?”

“Hi. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

263

“Th

at’s okay.” She grunted as she bent over and picked up her keys, holding them like a weapon; her cold brown eyes zipped from Kevin to me. “Do I know you?”