Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel (4 page)

Moira moved forward again. “I’m not holding my breath. All he has to go on is my version of what happened and the police report, and I know what the deputy thought. I have a sinking feeling this is going to be a dead end.”

“It’s not like you didn’t try.”

“I know. But something bad happened Friday night, Linda. That woman was terrified. If I don’t try to figure it out, no one will.”

“What else can you do, if there aren’t any clues to go on?”

Not much.

But letting this thing die didn’t sit well.

As they moved on to more innocuous topics, Moira tried to focus on the soft evening sunlight, the sweet smell of lilacs, and the soft pink petals of the dogwoods ruffling in the gentle breeze. But the placid setting did nothing to calm her churning stomach. She was used to digging deep for stories. To searching for truth even if that meant disturbing the status quo, no matter the risk. And she’d do it again in a heartbeat. Giving up had never been her style.

Except this time she didn’t know where to dig.

Cal Burke was her last hope.

And if an ex-detective couldn’t help her solve this puzzle, Linda was right.

She might be at a dead end.

“I think we’re at a dead end, buddy.”

“Yeah.” Cal propped his fists on his hips and surveyed the accident scene, which had turned out to be closer to Defiance than Augusta. Then he followed Dev back to the gray Taurus. “Thanks for coming out with me.”

“I didn’t have anything better to do on a Tuesday night. Especially in a white utility van. Not that I don’t appreciate we all drive company cars, you understand, but my vehicle-of-the-month is putting a serious crimp in my social life. It is not, shall we say, a date dazzler. I’m counting the days until I get the Explorer from Connor in May.”

“He won’t be back until Saturday. Use it until then.”

“I might. On Friday night, at least.”

“Hot date?”

“Maybe.”

Flashing him a quick grin, Cal squinted into the setting sun and did a final three-sixty sweep. They’d walked every inch of the road near the skid marks—and well past. Ventured into
the woods on both sides. Checked out the drainage ditch. Did a thorough search of the area around the tree with the freshly ripped-off bark where Moira’s car had come to rest.

And they’d come up with zilch. Zip. Nada.

If anyone else had been around the night of the accident, they’d left no footprints, tire marks, hubcaps, or personal belongings of any kind, including pocket change, shoes, or glasses.

“Assuming there was anything here to find, the torrential rain could have washed it away.” Dev gave the scene one last survey too.

“I know.”

It was time to go. The sun was setting, and they had a thirty-five-mile drive home.

“Ready to call it a day?” Dev started toward the passenger door.

Cal hesitated. Caught his partner’s arm. “Wait. Let’s do one more pass. Moira said the woman was standing about fifty feet away when she slammed on her brakes. Why don’t we mark that spot from the beginning of the skid tracks, assume she was thrown, and do a search in a tighter radius?”

Dev didn’t object, though Cal wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. They’d gone over the whole area thoroughly already, and daylight was fading.

His partner did have a comment, though. “She got under your skin, didn’t she?”

Cal opened the passenger door and leaned down to retrieve a flashlight from the glove compartment, willing the flush on his neck to stay below his collar. “Her story did. I’m convinced she saw more than a deer in her headlights. And I don’t think she imagined the guy who stopped, either.”

“If she didn’t, we have a real mystery on our hands.”

“One that won’t get solved if we give up.”

“Okay. Gauntlet accepted. Hand me a flashlight too.”

Cal passed the second one over, and Dev gestured to the pavement. “You take the right side of the stripe, I’ll take the left. You want to go out twelve feet from the center point?”

“Sounds reasonable. She wasn’t driving at a high speed. I doubt a person would have been thrown farther than that.”

Cal flipped on his flashlight, aimed the beam at the pavement, and began a second, meticulous search, dodging a curious motorist who happened by.

Ten minutes later, as he was about to complete his circuit and call it a day, the beam of his light landed on a small white object wedged between two broken pieces of asphalt at the side of the road. It looked a lot like a rock, but the shape made him pause.

Dropping down to the balls of his feet, he kept the light focused on it. Leaned closer.

“Find something?” Dev joined him.

“I don’t know. What does that look like to you?” He pointed to the peanut-sized object.

Dev inspected it. “A rock?”

“I think it’s a tooth.”

His colleague bent down. “That’s possible. Let me get a magnifying glass and some tweezers.”

“Bring the camera too. And an evidence envelope.”

Two minutes later, Dev was back. Cal laid a nickel beside the object and moved back as Dev took a close-up shot.

After removing one of the pieces of asphalt, Cal gently worked the object out with the tweezers and held it up.

It was a tooth.

“Wow. I can’t believe you spotted that.”

“Twenty-twenty comes in handy on occasion. You want to fill out the envelope?”

“Yeah.” Dev fished a pen out of his pocket and noted the case number, date, time, location, and a description on the front. After initialing it, he flexed it open.

Cal dropped the tooth inside, sealed the manila flap, and added his initials to Dev’s.

“This may not mean anything except that someone lost a tooth in this area.” Dev stood. “Could be from a kid who fell off a bike. Or even an animal.”

“I know. But it won’t hurt to tuck this away in our evidence closet.”

“It’s not enough to take on this case, Cal.”

At his partner’s quiet comment, Cal led the way back toward the car. “I know that too.” Much as he’d like to help Moira Harrison, there simply weren’t any tangible leads to track down.

They slid into their seats in silence. Cal buckled up, started the engine, and aimed the car toward St. Louis.

And as they began the long drive home in the dusk, he found himself dreading tomorrow, when he’d have to call and give a lovely lady some bad news.

Why wasn’t there any broken glass in her car?

Still wrestling with that question, Moira slid the key into the lock on the front door of her condo, twisted the handle, and stepped inside. The loud beep of the security alarm reminded her to punch in her code, and she did so on autopilot. Lucky thing she and Linda were such good friends, considering how she’d zoned out for the remainder of their walk.

She tossed her keys on the table in her tiny foyer and headed straight for the shower. It might only be April, but the day had been very warm, and her tank top was clinging to her.

Moira lingered under the cool spray, wishing she could wash away the memory of Friday night and all its repercussions as easily as the water washed away the grime of the day.

On second thought . . . maybe she wouldn’t want to wash away everything that had happened. Meeting Cal Burke had been pleasant, despite the circumstances—and his marital status. If he was as ethical and honorable as he seemed, his wife was a lucky woman.

A little niggle of envy surprised her, and Moira did her best to subdue it as she reached for a towel. Just because
she’d picked a loser didn’t mean she begrudged Cal’s wife her good fortune. Nor Linda hers.

But why couldn’t she get lucky in the romance department?

Before her melancholy degenerated into a pity party, she shut off the water, gave herself a vigorous rub with the towel, and tucked it around her sarong style. She had a nice life. A tad lonely once in a while, true, but there were other compensations.

Like Pulitzer prize nominations.

As she leaned down to retrieve her blow-dryer from under the vanity, a greenish spot on her left thigh caught her eye in the mirror. She shifted sideways to check it out.

Was that a bruise? Right where she’d felt the glass on Friday night?

Brow furrowed, she swiped a hand towel over the mirror to clear away the lingering steam and edged closer.

The skin wasn’t broken, but yes, there was a round, quarter-sized bruise.

She did a quick body check. Other than the purple-hued bump on her temple, that was the only other mar on her skin.

But if broken glass wasn’t the culprit, what had caused it?

Moira didn’t have a clue.

All she knew was that it added one more piece to an ever-growing puzzle.

M
oira slid onto a stool at the pass-through island in her tiny kitchenette, picked up her fork—and wrinkled her nose. She liked macaroni and cheese just fine, but every other night since she’d gotten her car-repair estimate more than two weeks ago? Overkill.

It was, however, easy on a budget that had just taken a big ding.

She poked at the noodles, rested her elbow on the counter, and settled her chin in her palm. For some reason, the silence in her condo felt oppressive tonight. Maybe because it was Friday and, as usual, she had no social plans.

It was going to be a long evening.

As she reached over and flipped on the small television at the end of the counter, a muffled rendition of “Für Elise” drifted her way.

Leaving her dinner behind, she jogged into the living room to retrieve her cell before voice mail kicked in. After a quick glance at caller ID, she pushed the talk button.

“Hi, Dad.”

“How’s my favorite daughter?”

She smiled. Their phone conversations always followed the same opening script—one of the few things in her life that had been predictable of late.

“Your only daughter is fine.”

“Just wanted to check in and make sure you got your wheels back.”

“This afternoon. Almost good as new.”

“And you’re feeling okay? No side effects from the concussion?”

She dropped into her favorite reading chair and propped her feet on the footstool. “No. I’m almost good as new too.”

“I’m glad that’s behind you. An accident was the last thing you needed while learning the ropes on your new job.”

And that wasn’t the half of it. But her father didn’t need to know about the vanishing people. That would only worry him.

Besides, it was over. Once Cal Burke had called her the day after her visit to his office, she’d been forced to concede defeat. If a pro like him couldn’t find anything to investigate, there must not be anything to find. She had to let it go.

Even if she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d failed the terrified woman in her headlights.

“That’s how life works, I guess.” She pulled off her pumps and wiggled her toes to restore circulation. If she hadn’t had to attend that luncheon today and interview the celebrity keynote speaker, she’d never have subjected her feet to such torture. “And speaking of the new job, it’s going well.”

“Good to know. Steven said the same when he called a couple of days ago.”

“Where is he, again?” It was hard to keep up with her globe-trotting engineer brother.

“Finishing up that job in Dubai. Must be quite a place. He told me a great story about a trip he took out to the desert. Rode a camel, ate dinner in a bedouin tent, watched a belly dancer perform, tried all kinds of exotic food and—”

“. . . a great honor.” A voice from the television grabbed her attention, and she tuned out her father to listen.

“And I thank God for the opportunity to do such worthwhile work with the talents he gave me.”

Her heart stopped.

Stuttered.

Raced on.

That sounded like the voice of her disappearing Good Samaritan.

She scrambled to her feet and raced back to the kitchen. The man was finished speaking, but she caught a quick glimpse of him before the shot switched back to the anchor at the news desk. Mid-fiftyish and distinguished-looking, with a touch of gray at his temples. There was nothing familiar about him—except his voice.

“That’s very inspiring.” The female anchor spoke to the reporter who’d covered the story and was now seated beside her.

“Yes, it is. Dr. Blaine started Let the Children Come with his own seed money and a dream, and thousands of children have benefitted. As the governor said this afternoon, it would be hard to think of someone more deserving of the state’s humanitarian of the year award.”

“Thanks, Brett.”

The anchors moved on to the next story, but Moira continued to stare at the screen.

“Moira? Moira, are you still there?”

From a distance, her father’s question registered, and she forced herself to switch gears.

“Yeah, I’m here.” Even as she responded, she was pulling out her laptop. “Look, can I call you later? Or tomorrow? I need to follow up on some information I just received.”

“Sure, honey. But don’t work all weekend, okay? You need some downtime too. Remember what Euripides said: ‘The best and safest thing is to keep a balance in your life.’”

Despite her distraction, Moira had to smile. Leave it to Dad to view—and dispense—parental advice through the lens of ancient Greece. He’d been studying and teaching classical philosophy for so long, the words of the earliest sages were as much a part of him as his lifelong passion for tying trout flies and attending Shakespearean plays.

“I’ll file that away, Professor. Talk to you soon.”

After pushing the end button, Moira set the phone on the dinette table and booted up her laptop, drumming her fingers on the polished oak as she waited for the computer to wake up. This would probably be a dead end too. A physician who’d won a humanitarian of the year award would never leave injured people at an accident scene.

But the similarity in voices was too striking to ignore.

The computer finished its start-up gyrations, and she opened her browser, then typed in “Dr. Blaine Let the Children Come.”

There were plenty of hits.

She started with the first one and worked her way down the screen.

The more she read, the more she was convinced she was on the wrong track.

Dr. Kenneth Blaine, age fifty-six, was a respected pediatric surgeon in St. Louis. Twelve years ago, after visiting rural Guatemala with a group of doctors on a humanitarian mission, he’d been so moved by the plight of the children that he’d founded Let the Children Come. The 501c3 organization was dedicated to raising funds for a free children’s clinic that provided medical care, nutritional assistance, and prenatal counseling in that country. Dr. Blaine continued to take a team of volunteer doctors to the clinic for two weeks every year. He’d won national recognition for his work, including a commendation from the president, and was active in his church.

There was more. Much more.

Disheartened, Moira sat back.

What were the odds a man like that—pillar of the community, great humanitarian, benefactor to the most needy, stellar role model—would be her missing Good Samaritan?

Smaller than winning the lottery.

Yet the doctor’s voice seemed so familiar.

She needed to listen to it again.

Searching the local station’s website, she found the seg
ment from the news program and watched the whole thing, beginning with the governor presenting a plaque to Dr. Blaine, followed by the brief clip from his acceptance speech.

She replayed it, closing her eyes to concentrate on the voice alone. Her Good Samaritan’s voice had been a bit gruffer . . . but the tonal quality was very similar. Still, three weeks had passed, and a voice was one of the hardest things to retain in memory. Even the voice of a loved one. Plus, many people had similar voices.

This was a real stretch.

Frowning, she rose and wandered back to the kitchen. Her macaroni and cheese was cold now, congealed into a hard glob on her plate. She considered nuking it, but why bother? Her appetite had vanished—just like the two people on that rainy night.

Fork in hand, she jabbed at the unappetizing mess. Maybe she should call Cal Burke. He’d been kind when he’d contacted her to break the news that there was nothing to go on. Apologetic, almost. As if he believed her story and wished he could help her. Why else would he have told her to call him if there were any new developments or if she remembered anything else that might be helpful?

Did this qualify?

Maybe.

But she needed to be more certain before she bothered him again. “Sketchy” was a more-than-generous way to describe this lead.

Moira pulled some plastic wrap out of a drawer, sealed up her dinner for another night, and mulled over an idea.

Why not ask her boss if she could interview Dr. Blaine for a feature story as a follow-up to his award? That would give her a chance to observe him up close, in person. And something he said or did might put her mind at rest. Reassure her he had no connection to her nightmare.

She slid the macaroni and cheese into the refrigerator and grabbed a container of yogurt, balancing it in her hand as
she pondered that plan. As far as she could see, it had no downside.

And when it led nowhere, as it surely would, perhaps she’d at last be able to move on, knowing she’d done all she could to help the terrified woman who’d reached out to her for that one brief moment in the glare of her headlights.

“Who’s Moira Harrison?”

At Connor’s question, Cal swiveled away from his computer to find the third member of the Phoenix PI team eyeballing the file folder on his desk. The one he should have relegated to his dead case file two weeks ago.

The one he hadn’t been able to bring himself to put away.

“A case I’m not taking.” He slid the file closer to him and set his Connemara marble paperweight on top of it.

“Getting a little proprietary, aren’t we?” Connor’s teasing tone morphed into a wince as he eased into the chair across the desk.

“Getting a little old, aren’t we?” Cal leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen against the palm of his hand.

“Don’t rub it in. And the next time a protection job in an exotic locale requires participation in sports, I intend to read the fine print. Especially if the sport involves water.”

“He asked up front if you were certified to dive.”

“But he neglected to mention the diving would be done in submerged caves and narrow passageways not designed to accommodate a six-foot-three body. I felt like a contortionist. Then he topped that off with kayaking and parasailing. Whatever happened to golf?”

Cal chuckled. “Did the guy ever work?”

“He made an occasional appearance to rev up the troops. But hey, he owns the company. Who’s going to call him on it if he plays while the minions have their meetings?” He
gestured toward the file. “That must be the Pulitzer prize nominee with the vanishing people.”

So much for his diversionary tactics. “Yeah. Did Dev tell you about it?”

“Who else? Is she as hot as he claims?”

Cal compressed his lips. Usually he found Dev’s appreciation for pretty ladies amusing. Today it rankled him.

“It’s a moot point. We’re not taking the case.”

“Then why is the folder still on your desk?”

Sometimes it was a pain working with dogged ex–law enforcement types. Even if they were college buddies—and shared an Irish heritage.

On the other hand, they came in handy in dicey situations.

“I haven’t gotten around to putting it away yet.”

Connor inspected his neat, everything-in-its-place desk. Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

When his partner rose, his grunt of pain didn’t elicit one iota of sympathy.

At the door, Connor turned. “By the way, Dev told me to give you a hard time. Mission accomplished.” With a mock salute, he disappeared down the hall.

Shaking his head, Cal hefted the paperweight and weighed it in his hand. Dev’s hair might be dark auburn now, but he’d been a carrot top as a child, with a mischievous streak to rival Dennis the Menace. Or so his mother had confided one Christmas in college when Dev had invited Cal home because his dad had been on an overseas assignment and he had nowhere to go for the holiday. Much to Dev’s embarrassment, his mother had dragged out the old family album one snowy Minnesota afternoon and regaled Cal with tale after tale of her son’s escapades.

Cal smiled. The stories were great ammunition. And he still had a few of the most humiliating ones tucked away.

He pursed his lips and rocked back in his chair. Siccing
Connor on him about Moira Harrison might merit pulling one out.

On the other hand, that might be a tactical error. It could suggest his buddies had gotten under his skin. That
she’d
gotten under his skin. Better to let it rest. Save his ammo for another day.

He set the paperweight back on his desk and ran a finger along the edge of the slender file. Better to let this sit too. If he reacted, put it away as a result of their ribbing, they could come to the same conclusion.

So he’d leave it there for another day or two. Solely as damage control.

At least that’s what he told himself.