Double Dog Dare (4 page)

We reached the part of a canal where lots of officially marked vehicles hung about. A narrow bridge overhung a long, straight canal with visible concrete sides. The water moved, but it didn’t seem too strong a current.

If Jeff had fallen in with his Escalade, could he have been washed away?

Buzz found a spot to park on the shoulder of the road and we got out. A bunch of people milled busily about. Some were in uniform. Judging from their cars, they were mostly from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, and others were from the Palmdale and Lancaster police departments.

Some staved off hordes of newshounds who shot photos and called out for quotes. Was that Corina Carey? Why would the media type I’d come to know best, a stellar staff member of the TV show
National NewsShakers
, be here? More to the point, why not? This was, undoubtedly, breaking news. She saw me at the same time and shouted, “Kendra! Hi. Is that the car of your friend private investigator Jeff Hubbard?”

“No comment,” I called, and turned my stiffened back.

In the middle of the officials was a member of the LAPD, Detective Ned Noralles.

This was way out of his jurisdiction—not only because it wasn’t L.A. proper, but also because he was a homicide detective. And despite what anyone’s opinion as to Jeff’s fate might be, it seemed way premature for a homicide investigation.

Nope, Ned had to be here for reasons similar to mine: curiosity. And caring.

Well, okay, the latter was a stretch. Maybe he wanted to make sure his former nemesis actually existed no more.

In any event, he looked up from the people he’d been chatting with as Buzz and I approached. “Ms. Ballantyne,” he said. “Mr. Dulear. What brings you here?”

“You called yesterday, Ned,” I reminded him. “We’re here to see whatever evidence there may be that Jeff Hubbard passed through here.”

“Come on, then.” Ned led us away from the group and the canal, and toward a parking area filled with police cars.

And a large flatbed truck I hadn’t noticed at first. On its flat bed crouched a highly damaged vehicle. A black one. One that had once been a gleaming, gorgeous Cadillac Escalade.

Like Jeff’s.

Trying not to flinch or shriek, I approached it calmly. From the back, I could see the license plate. With Jeff’s combo of letters and numbers.

Okay, then, it probably was his. The body was scraped and dented—a real shame, considering how well Jeff cared for his pride and joy.

And, yes, the driver’s side window was smashed out.

“It’s his,” Buzz confirmed grimly, as if I needed his acknowledgment.

“I think the crime scene technicians are about done,” Ned said. “The guys here said they’d keep me informed as a professional courtesy. And I’ve said I’ll provide whatever additional expertise they might need if this turns into a homicide investigation.”

I felt myself blanch even as I aimed a belligerent glare at Ned. “You’re exaggerating the importance of this,” I insisted. “I’d imagine Jeff parked his car at Ontario—that’s the local airport he prefers flying from—and someone stole it, took a joy ride, panicked, and dumped it up here where it wasn’t likely to be found fast.”

“I’ll say,” Buzz interjected morosely.

“Any indication of where Jeff might have gone?” I asked Ned. “I mean, you mentioned possible blood evidence, but even if it was Jeff’s, that’s not enough to be sure of anything except that he was hurt. Any skid marks on the road? Any search and rescue K-9s hunting for him?” I wouldn’t inquire about cadaver dogs. “Anything in the water that suggests he washed away—alive or not?” I nearly choked on the last, but it had to be said. And considered.

And hated.

“Far as I’ve been told, there’s nothing clear one way or another. The K-9s haven’t found anything. But like the crime scene folks here promised me, I’ll keep you informed about anything that tells us something. Or at least anything that’s permissible to release to the public.”

“I’m not the normal public, Ned,” I countered.

“No.” He looked down at me with dark brows raised in almost-amusement. “You’re a meddling civilian, and you’ve got more of an axe to grind in this investigation than in most of those where you interfere. Look, Kendra, I know you’re close to Jeff, and even though you’re not his family, I’ll treat you as if you are, and request that the authorities who really have jurisdiction treat you the same. It’s the best I can do.”

“Thanks, Ned,” I said. And I would of course inform Althea and Buzz, Jeff’s employees.

It was far from being good enough, but it was something.

And, besides, I had no intention of relying on Ned or any of the authorities to find Jeff. If they did, so much the better—or so I hoped.

But in the meantime, I had snooping to do.

Chapter Three

ON THE DRIVE back to L.A. with Buzz, I actually got him talking about his technical background installing security systems. His growing up in Long Beach. His enjoyment of investigations he’d been involved in. And his pessimism over the fate of his really cool boss.

That part I didn’t really want to hear.

I ignored several calls from Corina Carey. I wanted to talk to the nosy reporter as much as I wanted to be back watching Jeff’s car extracted from the aqueduct.

Since it was still a workday, I eventually headed back to my law office, intending to do just that: work. Better to concentrate on arcane legal issues than to let my mind wander about that fractured Escalade and its missing driver.

Of course I nearly regretted my decision to go there the moment I stepped into the building and Mignon’s usual smile became even perkier—an obvious attempt not to show the sympathy she undoubtedly felt on my behalf. “Hi, Kendra,” she chirped. “I wasn’t expecting you to come in today.”

“Just think of all the fun you’d miss if I didn’t,” I retorted, and hurried down the hall toward my office. I closed the door. Too many friendly and sympathetic faces would drive me batty. Not to mention the possibility they’d make me break down. I needed time to turn my mind in a different direction.

And so, I picked up the breach-of-contract complaint against some of Borden’s senior citizen clients that I’d started to read yesterday. A response was due within the next few days, and I turned to the computer on my desk to start composing an answer. Soon, I was engrossed in it, a good sign that I was performing at an expert level.

I was nearly done with a credible first swipe when my cell phone rang. Or sang. I’d had it programmed for a long time to play Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life,” but was considering tossing this aging phone against the wall. Or settling for some bland, canned ring that had come with it. I didn’t exactly feel like I was really tackling life head-on these days.

I checked the caller ID. And swallowed hard. It was Jeff’s office.

Had Buzz or Althea gotten more bad news?

I answered anyway, cringing as I awaited whatever.

“Hi, Kendra, it’s me.” Althea sounded slightly more exasperated than depressed, which allowed me to straighten my shoulders.

“What’s the good word?” I asked.

“Mothers!” she exclaimed.

Now, in my background, “mother” wasn’t a word I’d consider good. My parents had divorced ages ago. My mother remained a happily divorced attorney in the Washington, D.C., area. My father had remarried and had a second family, and I didn’t exactly consider his wife a relative. In fact, of my immediate family, I felt somewhat close only to my brother, Sean, a motel magnate in Dallas. Of course, we only talked about once a month unless something mandated a more immediate conversation.

Then again, Althea’s tone hadn’t suggested sweetness and apple pie, either.

“Whose mother?” I asked.

“Jeff’s. She’s been hounding me with questions.”

I swallowed. “Does she know . . . I mean, is she aware we haven’t seen him for a while?”

“Yes, and the cops have called his dad and her about finding his car at the bottom of the canal. She says she knows Jeff and figures it’s part of one of his cases to pretend he’s missing, but she’s insisting that I put her in touch with him anyway.”

I’d never met Mrs. Hubbard, but I envisioned a gorgeous middle-aged woman in a G-string each time I thought of her. As I did now. Jeff had told me his mom had supported their family by exotic dancing when he was a child, without telling his dad. Jeff had found out by investigation, which had ultimately led him first into law enforcement, and then into becoming a P.I.

Resourceful lady
is how I thought of her. I’d no idea what she did these days, whether dancing exotically or another occupation. For all I knew, she could have gained eighty pounds and become more of a sumo wrestler. Did she and Jeff’s dad still live in the Chicago suburb where he had grown up?

“What did you tell her?” I asked. Like, did you hint that she should potentially prepare for the worst?

Well, hell, I wasn’t about to do that, so why should Jeff’s mom?

“I tried to be tactful, but let her know that if Jeff’s on some kind of secret case, we didn’t know about it—and that we’re really worried about him. That’s when she said I should put her in touch with you.”

I sat up straighter in my suddenly uncomfortable seat. “Me?”

“Yes. She said Jeff has told her about the really great woman he’s dating—versatile enough to practice law, take care of people’s pets, and solve mysteries—all at once. She indicated she wants to talk to you about something.”

Uh-oh. If Jeff told her I solve mysteries, he’d exaggerated. Well . . . maybe. But if she thought I’d be able to solve the mystery of his disappearance, she surely could figure I’d already been trying.

Still, I put myself in her shoes. Nice, sexy stiletto heels, I was sure, if she was still an exotic dancer. She’d be worried about her son. Grasp at straws to learn where he was.

I might not have answers, but maybe we could help each other get through this time of uncertainty.

As long as she wasn’t the kind of demanding demon my mother was.

“Did she give you her phone number?” I asked Althea.

“Then you’ll call her?” She sounded extremely relieved. “That’s so nice of you, Kendra.”

I only hoped I wasn’t compounding an already unnerving situation.

First, though, I returned Corina Carey’s ever-mounting mound of phone messages. “Yes, it was Jeff’s car, as you know,” I told her. “But I still don’t know where he is, and neither does anyone else.”

“Interesting mystery,” she oozed. “I’ll see if there’s anything on the media side that will help, if you’ll keep me informed on your end.”

“Sure,” I lied. Exactly what I needed. More media prying into my private life. Although if she did learn something useful about Jeff . . . Well, if that happened, I’d consider cooperating with her.

Meantime, I got down to my next call . . . sort of.

OKAY, CALL ME a coward. Better yet, call me a dedicated attorney. I finished the answer to the complaint for our clients before I looked at the number I’d jotted down during my conversation with Althea.

A number with the 708 area code. Still the Chicago area, wasn’t it? I wasn’t sure till I checked it out on the Internet.

And then I looked at my e-mail. Nothing new.

And then I organized a couple of files on my habitually cluttered desk.

And then . . . then, I finally stopped procrastinating.

I reached into the bottom desk drawer where I kept my purse and extracted my cell phone. The call would be long-distance, and I didn’t need a record of it on the office system. We generally attributed our calls to a client or to a general administrative number. Personal calls were okay as long as they were limited, but of course they showed up on our monthly accounting statement.

And so, I closed my eyes for an instant, then opened them and resolutely pressed in the number that would connect me to Jeff’s mother.

“Hello?” said a husky yet sexily feminine voice. Just as I’d anticipated.

“Mrs. Hubbard? This is Kendra Ballantyne, calling from California. I’m a . . . friend of Jeff’s.”

“More than that, aren’t you?” She sounded somewhat amused. “According to my son, you’re pretty special.”

Good thing we weren’t videoconferencing. Otherwise, the woman would see the flush I felt creeping up my cheeks. “He’s a good guy, but he exaggerates.” I didn’t give her time to comment before continuing. “Anyway, Althea, from his office, said you wanted to talk with me. Mrs. Hubbard, I just want you to understand that—”

“Irene.”

“Pardon?”

“My name’s Irene, not Mrs. Hubbard. Otherwise, I sound like that old nursery rhyme, ‘Old Mother Hubbard.’ Ugh!”

I grinned despite my inner turmoil. “Got it. Okay, Irene, I need for you to understand that none of us who . . . care about Jeff really knows where he is.”

A pause. Then, “Unfortunately, I’ve figured that out, my dear. I’ve even spoken with Jeff’s Aunt Lois.”

“Aunt Lois?” We didn’t frequently discuss our families, and I doubted I’d heard of her.

“Not really his aunt, but a dear friend of mine who’s acted like a kind of mother to Jeff since he moved to California. She lives near Ontario Airport and they don’t get together often. But she’s much more the maternal type than I’ve ever been, so they’re close. Or at least they used to be.”

I wasn’t sure why he hadn’t mentioned her. Or maybe he had, and I hadn’t focused on her possible importance in his life.

“Anyway, I needed to tell someone I thought I could trust about what Jeff was working on when he went back to California. I gathered from Althea that no one from his office even knew he was in the state when he . . . when they lost track of him. He’d gone back earlier than he’d anticipated because Lois called and asked for his help. And his discretion.”

My heart had speeded up to a phenomenal rate. At last! A clue about why Jeff had come back to California without a word even to anyone at his office, let alone me. “Do you know what she asked him to do?”