Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel (11 page)

Cal leaned back, his expression speculative. “It would be interesting to hear what they talk about, don’t you think?”

She considered that, then lifted her shoulder. “I don’t know. How much could they say in a public place?”

“A lot more than you might expect. It’s amazing what people will discuss under the cover of conversation buzz in a roomful of people. They seem to think it gives them privacy.” He aimed a deliberate look her way. “I couldn’t go to a place like that without drawing way too much attention.”

She knew what he was hinting.
She
could go without drawing any attention. And who knew what she might learn?

Funny. Before they’d discussed the whole pretext thing earlier in the evening, she might have balked. But he’d convinced her that serving justice trumped minor ethical dilemmas. Eavesdropping on a conversation at a restaurant wouldn’t hurt anyone—and it might very well supply a critical clue in this rapidly deepening mystery.

“Okay. I’ll go.”

“You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?”

She didn’t blink. “Yes.”

Several seconds ticked by as he regarded her. Then, with a dip of his head, he examined the four slips again. “She pays the bill about 12:45, give or take a few minutes.”

“I’ll have to get there early and think of some excuse to
hang around so I can get seated right after she does—and as close as possible.”

“Not a problem. There’s a small consignment shop there. I read an article about it a few months ago. You can browse until she arrives.”

“How will I know her?”

“I’ll email you a link to a picture Nikki found when she was doing her initial background search. Since you’ll be dining alone, you can take a small notebook and jot down any info you hear. People will think you’re making a shopping list or planning a party.”

“It sounds easy enough.” She picked up her can of soda, but it was empty.

“Would you like another one?”

She glanced around the garage. “I think we’re finished, aren’t we?”

He surveyed the empty sheeting on the garage floor and the bulging trash bags. “Yeah. I guess we are.” He rose and began gathering up the scraps of paper that hadn’t yielded any usable information. “But after I stow all this stuff, why don’t we sit on the deck for a few minutes? It’s a nice night, and it’s not quite 9:00 yet. Then again, I don’t have to drive home. And you might have an early day tomorrow.”

An invitation, with a clear out. So did he want her to stay or not?

Sometimes the man was impossible to read.

Moira stood and began folding up the chairs and table as he disposed of the paper and plastic. Maybe she was overanalyzing. He’d invited her to stay, hadn’t he? Why not go with the flow? It wasn’t like a date or anything. It was a soda, simple and straightforward. She was the one with romance on the mind, not him. Still . . . why pass up the opportunity to enjoy a few more minutes of his company?

She snapped the second chair shut and leaned it against the wall, next to a dusty basketball and a garden sign on a spike that said “Bloom where you are planted.”

“Another soda sounds nice, thanks. As long as you let me wash my hands first.”

He paused for half a heartbeat as he picked up a bulging plastic garbage bag, biceps bulging below the sleeves of his T-shirt. “That can be arranged. As long as you promise not to comment on my housekeeping.”

“Trust me. I’m not one to point fingers, considering the proliferation of dust bunnies at my own place. They seem to multiply as fast as the real thing.” She tore her gaze away from his muscled arms.

He hefted the bag into a large plastic garbage can, locked the lid in place, and led the way to the door on the side of the garage. After pushing it open, he stepped aside to let her enter, then joined her in the small mudroom.

“The guest bath is through the kitchen, straight down the hall on your right. I’ll clean up in the utility sink in the basement and meet you by the back door.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Crossing the kitchen, which was painted an interesting shade of ochre, she took a quick inventory. There were no dishes in the sink and only a mug and small plate in the dish drain. A towel hung neatly on a bar beside the sink. There wasn’t an empty pizza box or fast-food container in sight. Nor did she see any evidence of dust.

She ought to invite him over to clean up her place.

As she passed the living and dining rooms, she had no more than a fleeting impression of bright spaces and clean lines and colorful prints on the walls. All uncluttered. All looking as if the space was hardly lived in.

Why?

Was Cal a better housekeeper than he’d let on? Were the demands of his job so intense that he spent little time here? Or did he choose to stay away as much as possible because the memories these walls held were too painful to endure except in small doses—but too sweet to walk away from?

Moira closed the bathroom door behind her, soaped up
her hands and arms, and rinsed away the grime. Perhaps Cal would offer a few of those answers tonight.

And if not . . . she’d enjoy their conversation and then focus on her Friday trip to the Woman’s Exchange—her initiation into the world of covert surveillance.

That should be an interesting experience.

As for how productive it would be . . . who knew? Worst case, she’d have a nice lunch.

But best case, she’d learn some new information that might bring them one step closer to solving the puzzle of the vanishing woman.

C
al heard the water shut off in the bathroom and took a long chug of his soda as he waited for Moira in the kitchen.

He shouldn’t have asked her to stay and socialize.

Not here.

Not in the house he’d shared with Lindsey.

Not in a place where his wife was everywhere.

He scanned the space around him, so filled with her spirit.

She was in the ceramic
Family Circus
cartoon plaque, rescued from the dollar table at a flea market, that now hung on the wall beside the sink:
Yesterday’s the past, tomorrow’s the future
, but today is a gift. That’s why it’s
called the present
.

She was in the lopsided, handwoven potholders hanging on their usual hooks beside the stove, bought at a craft sale featuring products made by adults with Down syndrome.

She was in the ugly, squat cactus on the windowsill, the last unsold item at a garden center clearance sale, adopted after the owner assured her it would bloom soon.

He touched one of the prickly spines that kept friends and foes alike at arm’s length, tempted yet again to toss it in the trash. But the comment Lindsey had always made whenever he’d suggested that echoed in his mind.

Let’s give it one more
chance, Cal. It will bloom when the time is right.
I know it
.

Six years later, Cal was still waiting for the promised profusion of color on the barren plant.

The bathroom door opened, and he took another gulp of soda, trying to wash away the lump that had formed in his throat.

“Did I hold you up?”

Pasting on a smile, he popped the tab on the second can of soda and handed it to Moira.

He needed to get her out of the house.

Fast.

“No. I just pulled these out of the fridge.” He moved toward the door. “If we’re lucky, the mosquitoes will lay low for once.”

Releasing the security bolt with his foot, he twisted the lock, pushed open the slider . . . and tried to ignore the fresh fragrance that wafted toward him when she slipped past.

As he shut the door behind them, she strolled over to the railing, eyeing the lights over the door and at the corners of the deck that kept shadows—and troublemakers—
away.

“So much for ambiance, huh?” She smiled at him, squinting in the glare as she tipped her soda can against her lips.

“I’d rather have security.” He glanced around. It
was
pretty bright out here. Not the best atmosphere for relaxation. “Let me kill a couple of these.”

Before she could respond, he reentered the house and flipped the switch that controlled the corner lights.

When he returned, she’d claimed one of the white plastic chairs at the round, glass-topped table in the far corner of the deck. The one that used to be protected from the sun by a colorful, striped umbrella that was stored in the basement somewhere. He hadn’t spent enough time on the deck since Lindsey died to warrant searching for it.

He settled into the chair beside her.

“Better. Thank you.” She smiled at him.

“No problem.” He took a swig of soda and exhaled slowly.
Maybe this hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. The deck held fewer memories of Lindsey, and chilling for fifteen minutes with some light and easy chitchat was a nice wrap-up for a long day that had begun with a midnight trash run.

He searched for an innocuous topic. “So your dad’s a philosophy professor.”

“Yeah. At Mizzou.”

“Is he one of those head-in-the-clouds stereotypes?” He grinned at her.

Her mouth curved, softening her lips. “Only once in a while. My brother and I still kid him about the time he went to a mall in St. Louis and forgot where he parked his car. The security people had to help him find it.”

Laughter bubbled up inside him as he took another swig of soda. “You don’t seem to have inherited the absentminded gene.”

“Neither did my brother. He’s an engineer, currently communing with the camels in Dubai. What about your family? You mentioned a sister. Any other siblings?”

“No. She’s married to an attorney with the State Department in Washington. They have two children. My dad is still active-duty Air Force, stationed in Germany.”

“So no family close by.”

His throat constricted, and though he tried to maintain an informal tone, his response came out strained. “Not anymore.”

Silence descended, except for the buzz of the cicadas.

So much for light and easy.

Cal set his soda on the dusty table. Watched a drop of condensation roll down the side. Tried without success to think of some glib remark that would brighten the suddenly heavy mood.

To his relief, Moira came to the rescue.

“This is a pleasant spot. Very peaceful. The only outdoor space I have at the condo I’m renting is a tiny patio, and the few evenings I’ve sat out there I’ve had to listen to my
neighbor’s twangy country western music. I much prefer the cadence of your cicadas.”

The tension in his shoulders dissipated. “I hear you. One of my partners is into U2, and much as I like everything Irish, a little bit of their music goes a long way. You must have a Celtic heritage too, with a name like Moira and that reddish hair.”

“Not to mention freckles, which I’m happy to report faded as I aged.” She smiled and lifted her can in salute. “To everything Irish . . . in moderation.”

He smiled back and clinked his can with hers.

After taking a long swallow, she set her can on the table. “Thanks again for turning out the extra lights. This is much nicer.”

“I agree. The deck is like a stage when they’re all on, and I haven’t been comfortable in the spotlight since I tripped on my shepherd’s robe in the third-grade Christmas play and lost my beard, much to the amusement of the audience.”

He meant the comment as a joke.

She took it more seriously.

“I suppose that’s a prudent attitude even without your theatrical mishap, based on what you said once about you and your partners having enemies from your law enforcement days.” She shifted toward him. “Is that the real reason for all the security lighting?”

Not a subject he wanted to discuss.

“Partly.” He picked up his can and finished off the last of the soda. “But it’s always smart to take precautions. Bad things can happen when you don’t.”

Like Lindsey dying.

The sweet, lingering aftertaste of the cola turned bitter on his tongue, and he crushed the empty can in his fist, the metallic crumpling sound violating the gentle stillness of the night.

When he set the mangled aluminum back on the table, Moira studied it. Lifted her gaze to his.

He could read the questions in her eyes . . . and the empathy. It chipped away at the wall around his heart that allowed him to keep his feelings of loss and guilt and loneliness at bay, nudging him to share the mistakes he’d admitted to no one—not family, not friends, not his partners—with this woman he’d known less than a month.

His pulse accelerated, and he gripped the arms of his chair, tottering on the edge of a darkness even his security lighting couldn’t dispel. It had taken him months to claw his way out of that abyss after Lindsey’s death. How could he even consider going back to that terrible place?

“Any bad thing in particular?”

At Moira’s soft question, Cal stiffened—and stalled. “Why do you ask that?”

She lifted one shoulder and traced a trail of grimy condensation to the edge of the table, where it plummeted into the shadowy void below.

“Intuition, I guess. And that.” She gestured to the crushed can. “I’m picking up a lot of tension—and anger. I’m guessing there’s some incident in your past that still bothers you. But I didn’t mean to pry, and I certainly understand if there are things you’d rather not share. We all have our secrets.” She gave him a tiny smile, then checked her watch. “It’s getting late. I better head out.” She reached for her empty can.

Giving in to his instincts, he grabbed her fingers. “Wait.”

She froze, and their gazes locked.

Seconds ticked by, but she didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t change her expression. Didn’t say a word.

She just waited as he struggled with his dilemma.

And it was a big one.

Should he take a risk and open his heart to this woman—or play it safe and let her walk away?

As he waffled, she suddenly cinched his decision with a gentle, encouraging, everything-will-be-all-right-because-I’m-here squeeze of his hand.

And all at once it was.

For in that instant, he knew this woman would honor his confidences . . . and listen with her heart as well as her head.

“Are you in a hurry to get home?” His question came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat.

“No.”

He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand, released her fingers, and stood to walk over to the railing.

For a few seconds, he focused on the murky darkness beyond the range of the single, low-voltage light over the back door. Gathering up his courage.

Finally he turned back to her, fingers clenched around the wooden rail behind him.

“You were right. A very bad thing did happen.” He swallowed and verbalized the truth that had haunted him for five long years. “Lindsey died because I didn’t take adequate precautions. And because I was selfish.”

Surprise widened her eyes, but it was quickly replaced with puzzlement. “I thought you said it was a hit-and-run accident?”

“It wasn’t an accident.” The words came out hard. Flat. Cold. The way his heart had felt since her death.

She stared at him. “Are you saying . . . someone killed her?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because of a murder case I worked on that put a drug kingpin behind bars. We never found the driver, but I know Bernie Levine was calling the shots from his cell in Potosi.”

Moira held on to the arms of her chair and leaned forward, her posture taut. “How can you be sure?”

Cal swallowed past the bile that rose in his throat. “The day after Lindsey died, I got an unsigned sympathy card in the mail. The postmark was Potosi. It had been mailed the day before she was killed.”

He heard her gasp across the small space that separated them and steeled himself against the pain and rage and desolation that churned in his gut as he relived the moment when the implications of that message had registered.

“We worked the case hard, but we couldn’t find a tangible link between Levine and her death. A few months later I left County to form Phoenix, and Dev and I picked up the investigation again. Connor pitched in too when he joined the firm later that year. But we came up just as empty. The man knew how to cover his tracks, and he didn’t make many slips. It had taken us months to gather sufficient evidence to nail him on the charge that put him behind bars in the first place, and even then it was touch and go.” His jaw tightened. “In the end, it didn’t much matter. He died two years ago in prison of a cerebral hemorrhage.”

Several beats of silence ticked by as Moira furrowed her brow. “You said all this could have been avoided if you’d taken adequate precautions, but what could you have done?”

He turned away, toward the blackness, and let out a slow breath. “Levine warned me. I was there when he was sentenced, and before they took him out he looked over at me and said three words: ‘You’ll be sorry.’ I knew he had colleagues who wouldn’t mind extracting some retribution—for the right price. So I watched my back—and Lindsey’s. But I didn’t watch hers long enough.” His voice rasped.

A chair scuffed against the deck floor behind him, and a moment later Moira appeared at his side. She leaned a hip against the railing, facing him.

He didn’t want to look at her. Didn’t want to risk seeing on her face the condemnation he felt in his heart.

“Cal.” Her voice was whisper soft and laced with sympathy as she touched his arm.

Squeezing the railing, he forced himself to turn his head. The light above the door caught the shimmer in her eyes and her soft, compassionate expression.

She didn’t blame him for what had happened to Lindsey.

Gratitude and relief poured through him—even if it didn’t change his own opinion.

“I don’t believe it was your fault.” She spoke as if she’d read his mind.

“You haven’t heard it all.”

She waited.

Cal swiveled around and leaned back against the railing, putting the darkness behind him as he shared the incriminating information he’d never had the courage to tell his partners.

“After Bernie’s threat, I told Lindsey I’d like to join her on her early morning walks. That I needed more exercise, and that walking together would give us more couple time. I stuck with it for weeks, but there wasn’t so much as a peep from Bernie. I began to believe the danger was past.” He closed his eyes. “Bad mistake.”

He sucked in a breath and opened his eyes. “A few days before she was killed, I started sleeping in and letting her go alone. I’d been working a case hard, late into the night for weeks, and I convinced myself the danger to her was minimal.” He swallowed. “One morning the sound of an ambulance woke me. I knew it was her. All because I put a few extra z’s above protecting my wife.” He braced himself, waiting for Moira’s expression to change.

It didn’t.

“What a terrible burden to carry for all these years.”

Pressure built behind his eyes at her whispered comment, and he blinked away the sudden sting. He didn’t deserve her kindness, even if it was a balm on his soul.

“I deserve it.”

“I don’t think so. You couldn’t have walked with her every morning forever, not with the demands of your job. And she was probably alone—and vulnerable—at other times during the day. Much as we might want to, we can’t protect the people we love every single minute.”

There was truth in what she said. Yet it didn’t salve his conscience.

“I’ve told myself that a thousand times. But I could have protected her
that
morning. And maybe if I’d shared the threat with her, she’d have been more on guard for a suspicious car.”

“Why didn’t you?” Moira’s tone was curious, not critical.