Finding Forever (41 page)

Uncle Don. Technically, retired detective Donald Gomez wasn't a blood uncle, but with the rest of her dad's relatives back in New York, Brooklyn's father's former partner had always served as an honorary one.

“Y'ello,” Uncle Don answered his phone.

“Hey, it's Brooklyn!”

“Hey, kiddo. What's shakin', bacon?”

“I have a little favor to ask.”

“Well, you've come to the right guy.”

A year after his partner died, Uncle Don left the Twin Oaks force to start his own private investigation agency. Every month or so, Uncle Don would check in on Brooklyn; he had made that promise to her mother upon Kit's death.

“What can I do you for? How's the blog going? My daughter tells me you've become quite the reporter.”

“Kind of. I'm trying.”

“If you ain't tryin', you're dyin',” Don said. “And you know how much your dad hated to see you cry. He'd be very proud of you.”

“Thank you. But, Uncle Don, I could use your help with something I'm working on.”

He chuckled. “The last time I paid attention to celebrities, Burt Reynolds was a big movie star. But, you know, I am always here for you.”

“So if I gave you a license plate number could you trace it to the owner of the vehicle?”

He laughed. “You're sounding like Kit more and more. Always hunting down someone, always kicking over rocks.”

Though a lot of information was available to the public on the Web, a lot of information on individuals sat on databases
only accessible to law enforcement and licensed private investigators. Mostly, Don tracked down witnesses for lawyers, ran background checks on executives, and conducted the occasional lie detector test. It was all pretty easy work for an FBI-trained investigator.

“The answer, my dear, is yes, of course I can. But it would just trace back to the registered owner, not necessarily the driver.”

“That's okay. I'll take whatever I can get. I have been stuck on a story and I'm hoping this might break it open.”

“What's the number?”

Brooklyn read him the number. “Can you keep this confidential?” she added.

“And by confidential, I assume you mean that I won't tell your mom.”

Brooklyn crossed her fingers. “Um, yeah.”

“I'll get that for you, no problem. But please do me a favor.”

“Sure.”

“Listen to your mom,” he said. “She's a good lady. I know she's protective of you and that sometimes she can be wound tighter than a two-dollar watch, but she loves you very much. Understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Alrighty then.” Don sighed. “But you can't tell your mom I'm helping, either. If she found out, I'm sure the news would go over about as smoothly as a five-hundred-pound pole vaulter.”

Taylor listened. She had grown so used to feigning interest during Peter's lectures that she had literally begun biting her tongue. As Taylor and Peter strolled side by side down a path that bisected the clinic's lush main lawn, the morning sun peeking over the mountains, he began: “I have a question for you. What do you think of me?”

“I think you are a very passionate person. And you're very intelligent. I am learning a lot from you. You've changed my life in so many ways,” Taylor said.

A set of dimples broke through the tightly stretched skin of Peter's cheeks. “And what about my appearance? What do you make of it?”

“You are very fashionable.” Taylor sized up his wrinkle-free white polo shirt and green slacks. “And fit.”

“Thank you, my dear. You are very sweet.”

“You asked.”

He checked an app on his phone. “Four laps around this property total about ten thousand steps. And it looks as if we're just about halfway to our goal.”

Taylor didn't deny that her diet and exercise program had done wonders for her physique. In fact, as she strode on the path she could feel butt muscles clenching that hadn't been there when she arrived some two weeks earlier. But despite the benefits of the Program, she remained freaked out by Peter's propaganda, crazy rants, and threats.

He draped his arm around her shoulders. “I have something else I'd like to discuss with you. We can be honest, you and I, can't we?”

She bowed her head. “No more secrets. No more lies. No
more traumas, only light.”

“Good then. So I assume you heard the ruckus in the living room the other day.”

Taylor hesitated, but offered a slow nod. The argument with Beckett, the talk of electroshock therapy and kidnapping, the screaming monkey, the gun shot. She'd hoped Peter had forgotten she was upstairs. He obviously hadn't.