Читать книгу Dead Right - Brenda Novak - Страница 9

Madeline longed to call Kirk. She hadn’t talked to him since they’d broken up. But allowing herself to do what was comfortable and convenient would only land her in the same old rut. She and Kirk had no real hope of long-term happiness together. She wanted children; he was adamantly opposed to them. He wanted to leave Stillwater, travel the world; she wanted to stay close to her family and maintain her home and business. It was better to let go and move on, better for both of them.

Maybe she was doing the right thing. But life was damn lonely in the meantime. Especially since she hadn’t gone to her office today. Although she had no staff, just three people who earned a little extra money delivering papers for her once a week, the small office she leased for The Stillwater Independent was located on Main Street and a lot of people dropped in on her. She usually enjoyed the company—a journalist had to stay connected to the community. Today, however, she hadn’t wanted to face the questions, the sympathy, the reaction that recovering the Cadillac would evoke.

Feeling guilty for hiding out, she scooped up her cat and rubbed her chin on Sophie’s fur. If it hadn’t been her own father who’d gone missing, she would already have produced an article on the incident at the quarry, slapped it on the front page and given it a huge headline: Reverend’s Car Found. But she was too close to the story, and after the flurry of activity following the drowning of Rachel Simmons—the search, the funeral, the outpouring of sympathy for the family—she was emotionally exhausted.

She couldn’t write about what she’d been through this morning. Not yet. She hadn’t done much of anything today except scour the Internet for someone who might be able to help her, and pace.

Putting Sophie down, she took her mother’s old quilt from the couch where she’d been curled up a few minutes earlier, wrapped it around her shoulders and crossed to the window. It was getting late. And it was still raining.

God, she was tired of the constant drizzle, tired of the cold. The steady drumming against the roof made her feel hollow. And everything looked soggy and beaten down and smelled of mold.

She glanced at her car keys, lying on the antique secretary by the door. Maybe she should go out, visit her family. But the soft chime of the clock in the hall told her it was far too late. She didn’t want to go to the farm where Clay and Allie lived, anyway. She’d grown up there and wouldn’t be able to return without thinking of her father.

Images of her parents’ Cadillac, rusty and encrusted with dirt, once again flitted through Madeline’s mind.

She pressed her palms to her eyes, but she could still see Pontiff holding up her father’s camera. She also heard the squeak of the metal, the splash of the water that had poured out of the open door and the echo of Chief Pontiff’s voice when he’d said, “That’s it.”

Heading to the small desk in her old-fashioned kitchen, she picked up the listing of private investigators she’d printed off from the Internet. She’d called several of them earlier but had been disappointed by their responses. They were too busy. They wouldn’t be able to come to Stillwater to do the necessary research. They specialized in lost children or cheating husbands.

However, a few had recommended a man named Hunter Solozano. They said he could find anyone or anything and often accepted unusual jobs for the challenge. But when she’d called the number they’d given her, his voice mail had indicated there was no room for new messages.

Swallowing a sigh, she picked up the handset and tried Mr. Solozano again. It was past midnight, but she didn’t care. Surely it was an office phone, which meant it wouldn’t matter. Maybe she’d finally be able to leave a message so she could feel as if there was some hope.

She’d expected at least three rings—so she jerked upright when a deep voice answered almost immediately.

“Damn it, Antoinette, you’ve already got your pound of flesh!”

Madeline stiffened in surprise. “And if this isn’t Antoinette?” she ventured.

There was a moment of startled silence. “That depends,” he drawled, smoothly recovering. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“That also depends,” she replied. “Are you Hunter Solozano?”

“Yes.”

“And are you as good as they say?” she asked eagerly.

He chuckled. “Better. Particularly if you’re talking about sex.”

Thanks to her preoccupation, she’d walked right into that one. Embarrassed and annoyed, she cleared her throat. “I’m talking about your professional skills.”

“So this is a business call.”

“Yes.”

“At ten-thirty at night.”

His time. She’d wondered about the area code. Fortunately, he lived to the west of her and not the east or he’d have a lot more reason to complain. “You sound like you’re awake to me,” she said hesitantly, tapping a pencil on the desk.

“Thanks to you and my ex-wife.” His voice dropped meaningfully. “In case you haven’t guessed, that doesn’t put you in very good company.”

A touch of defensiveness made Madeline rub her furrowed brow. “I assumed I was calling an office number.”

“That means you weren’t expecting a response. Great. This can wait until morning, then.”

“No!” she cried before he could disconnect.

The fact that she didn’t hear a click encouraged her. “You weren’t picking up earlier. And your voice mail was full.”

He didn’t make any excuses. Neither did he promise her she’d be able to reach him later. So she kept talking, trying to keep him on the line until she had a better chance of enlisting his help. “How was I supposed to know I’d been given your home number?”

“It’s not my home number. It’s my cell. If you want to talk to me, that’s the only number. I like things simple.”

“You don’t have an office?”

“I have a small office, but you’ll rarely catch me there.”

Purring, Sophie brushed against her legs, but Madeline was too preoccupied to pay attention. “I take it you’re not interested in developing new business.”

“I have more business than I can handle.”

That response wasn’t encouraging…“That’s fortunate for you, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Plumbing the depths of human frailty has its downside.”

“So why don’t you do something else?”

“Some people are good at building houses. I’m not one of them.”

He wasn’t particularly good with people, either, but she’d heard too many testimonials about him to give up now that she had him on the phone. “I have a challenge for you.”

“I’m tired and I want to go bed,” he said. “But thanks for the call.”

“Can I leave you my number at least? Will you get back to me in the morning?”

There was a long silence.

“Hello?” she prompted.

“Why don’t I refer you to a young associate of mine?”

Maybe this other person would be easier to deal with. “Is this ‘young associate’ any good?”

“He worked at my office for a short while doing database searches and just got his own license. He doesn’t have a lot of experience, but he’s hungry and he’s learning.”

Learning? “No! I need someone who really knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t know what to say, Mrs.—”

“Barker. But I’ve never been married. Call me Madeline.”

“Ms. Barker. If I haven’t made myself clear, I’m not interested. Judging by your accent, you live several states from me, anyway.”

“I’m in Stillwater, Mississippi. Where’re you?”

“L.A.”

“It’s crowded in Los Angeles,” she said, hoping to point out one of the city’s less appealing aspects.

“That’s true, but if you’ve ever been here, you’d know why.”

“I’ll pay you. Well.” She frowned at the check register lying open at her elbow. That was hardly the card she’d wanted to play. She was barely keeping herself and the paper afloat. How would she manage?

“I suggest you contact someone in your own area,” he said.

Panic caused Madeline to tighten her grip on the phone. “But I haven’t even told you what I want.”

“Let me guess. You want me to slay the dragon that’s keeping you up at night.”

She glared, bleary-eyed, at the clock on the wall to her right. She was tired, and too frayed around the edges to hide it. Evidently, that wasn’t working in her favor. “Isn’t that the case with most of your clients?”

“These days, I typically work with people who want me to find out whether their estranged mates are hiding assets or having affairs so they can get a better divorce settlement. Or they’re trying to collect on a debt. Their dragon is usually greed.” There was a slight pause. “Do you fit into either of these categories, Ms. Barker?”

“No, but…” She struggled to reel in her temper at his all-too-easy dismissal. “So you’ve gotten lazy? You only take on the easy stuff?”

“I take on the convenient stuff, the close stuff. Besides, I doubt you could afford me.”

She finally bent down to scratch her persistent cat. “What makes you think that?”

“Maybe it’s the accent.”

Her jaw dropped before she could rally her response. “That’s…discriminatory,” she sputtered.

“You called me. Feel free to hang up anytime.”

Nudging Sophie away, she stood and nearly told him to go to hell. But she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to find anyone else. According to what she’d been told, she’d certainly find no one better. “I need you,” she said, resorting to simple honesty. “I need your help.”

He cursed but didn’t hang up, so she took a bolstering breath. “You’re still with me?”

“What is it you’re looking for?” he asked with enough resignation to give her hope.

“A person.”

“Who?”

“My father.” She didn’t add that he’d been missing since she was sixteen. Better to reveal the potential difficulty of the task in stages.

“Where do you think he went?”

Despite all the years that had passed, she’d clung to the dream of a reunion—until they’d found the Cadillac. “I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

“Because…”

She caught her breath, letting it out a little with each word. “He hasn’t been seen in…a long, long time.”

“How long?”

“Nineteen years.”

“Almost two decades? Aren’t you a bit late in following up, Ms. Barker?”

The accusation in his tone made her throat clog with emotion. “I’ve done what I could,” she managed to say. She’d even crossed the line a few times—breaking into Jed Fowler’s auto shop, hiring Officer Hendricks to scare Allie into believing someone out there was still dangerous.

“And you’ve learned what?”

Very little. The mystery was beyond her own sleuthing ability, as well as that of the entire Stillwater Police Department. Mr. Solozano was right, she should’ve looked for an outside investigator long ago. “Not enough.”

“Who stood to gain the most from his death?”

“It’s not that straightforward. My stepmother inherited the farm, but she’d never hurt a soul.”

“Who else is there?”

“Jed Fowler, an older man who was working on our tractor in the barn the night my father went missing. He can seem…strange. And a younger guy, Mike Metzger, who’s in prison on drug-related charges. But I don’t know if either one of them is responsible. That’s what I want you to find out.”

“Sounds like a murder investigation to me. You should contact the police.”

She bristled at his lack of compassion. He had to know, in twenty years, she would already have tried the police. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to get involved. Maybe Hunter Solozano was a good investigator but he was the most insensitive jerk she’d ever met.

“Forget it. I’m sorry I bothered you. Just—” her voice cracked “—just go back to fighting with your ex-wife. I hope she wins, by the way,” she said and slammed down the phone.

Antoinette had already won. Hunter tossed his cell phone onto the side table. He deserved Madeline Barker’s anger. Hell, he’d asked for it. He’d provoked her at every turn. After speaking with his ex-wife, and then his daughter—God, what she’d said to him—he’d been angling for a fight he could win.

But he didn’t feel any better. If anything, he felt worse.

The flicker of his muted television served as the only light in the room. The darkness generally soothed him, but not tonight. Raking his fingers through his hair, he stood up, then sat down again.

Forget Maria. She didn’t know what she was saying. Her mother put her up to it, as usual.

But he couldn’t forget. The pain was too physical. It felt like he had an open wound in his chest, as if his daughter had reached into that wound, wrapped her little hand around his heart and squeezed with complete abandon.

Considering the Barker woman’s terrible timing, it was a wonder the desperation in her voice had penetrated at all.

“Ms. Barker is not my problem,” he said aloud. His daughter was his problem. Or, more specifically, the fact that his ex-wife had turned his daughter against him. Although he paid exorbitant amounts of child support—he’d sent Antoinette an extra two thousand dollars just this month—it was never enough to make his ex happy. He doubted his daughter was even receiving the benefits of the money he sent. The last time he’d seen Antoinette, she’d had a new nose and breast enhancements that were so large she looked like a damn porn queen. The way she was spending money and hitting the L.A. party scene, trying to keep up with the rich and famous, was humiliating even though he wasn’t married to her anymore. Her behavior had to be doubly embarrassing for their daughter. How many PTA moms had tits the size of watermelons?

But Antoinette hadn’t become quite so obsessive about plastic surgery, designer clothes and who was who in L.A. until after the divorce.

The guilt that fueled his self-loathing settled deeper in his gut. How had he managed to screw up so completely? If only he could go back…

But it was too late. The damage was done. And now Antoinette was using their child to extort more and more money out of him while painting him as the devil himself, the cause of all Maria’s problems.

Automatically, his eyes cut to a picture of his twelve-year-old daughter. Her photograph rested on one of the empty shelves above the television, and was about the only decoration left in the beach house. Antoinette had stripped the place bare when she moved out more than a year ago.

Maria stared back at him, wearing a somber expression. He imagined the school photographer coaxing her, “Say ‘cheese!’” But she seemed to be thinking, “Get real. What do I have to smile about?”

The desire for a drink slammed into him like one of the waves he could hear churning down the beach. He felt helpless, pinned beneath his craving for the smooth burn of alcohol and the resulting disconnect. He wasn’t asking for a lot. Just one night of escape. Then he’d get back on the wagon. It had never been so bad before. His daughter had never said what she’d said tonight.

Please, leave us alone. You make everything worse…I don’t want to be with you, okay? It’s all your fault!

Wincing as the memory lashed a part of him that was already raw, he reached for his keys and his wallet, both sitting next to his phone. He’d go down to the bar on the corner. If he planned to drink, he had to go somewhere. Sober for six months, he had no alcohol in the house.

But he stopped at the door. Maria’s eyes seemed to be following him, accusing him. You’re just what she says you are. A drunk.

Clenching his jaw, he bowed his head, battling the weakness that threatened to overtake him. He’d beat the craving for booze—if only to prove Antoinette wrong.

Eventually, he forced himself to return to the couch and pick up his guitar. It was all so damned ironic, he thought, trying to gain some perspective on the phone call that had hurt so badly. Alcohol was the only thing that had made it possible to cope with the irritation and dislike he faced on a daily basis in his marriage. And alcohol had caused him to make the one mistake he’d promised himself he’d never make, the mistake that had landed him in their neighbor’s bed and destroyed his marriage.

He strummed through several Nickelback songs, hoping to get lost in the music. His guitar helped him relax. But tonight nothing could release the pent-up frustration. Antoinette had promised he could take Maria to Hawaii next weekend for seven days. He’d been planning on it for two months. And then Maria had called to say she wouldn’t go…

He played a few more chords, but his heart wasn’t in it. His throat and eyes burned, his muscles ached with the effort of subduing his reaction.

Grasping for something, anything, to fill his mind besides the echoing rejection of his daughter, he turned his thoughts to the Southern woman who’d called. What are you looking for…? A person…Who…? My father.

Hunter sighed. Maria didn’t want her father. They lived less than ten miles apart, but she refused to see him. Which pleased Antoinette inordinately, of course. His ex hated him—because he’d never really loved her.

Stop! Think of something else!

Madeline Barker’s voice came to him again. That’s discriminatory.

Setting his guitar aside, he frowned. Mississippi wasn’t exactly high on his list of places to see. But he knew what need was. And he had nothing here, did he? He was stuck in an empty house with only his guitar for company, working night and day so he wouldn’t break down and start drinking again.

His life had become too pathetic for words. He loved California, had lived in Newport Beach nearly all his life, but the steady pounding of the waves twenty yards from his house seemed to whisper, “Maria…Maria…Maria.”

He’d been an idiot to lose her. And he’d been even more of an idiot to place the rope that had hanged him right inside Antoinette’s beautifully manicured fingers. Now she was laughing while she watched him swing…

Maybe it was time to stop the show. He wouldn’t force his daughter to see him; he couldn’t bear the thought of making her any unhappier than she already was. She’d told him she’d be better off if he gave up, walked away. Maybe, for a while, he should. Lord knew he wasn’t doing anyone any good sitting here going out of his mind. And he wasn’t about to vacation in Hawaii by himself. He didn’t need that much time on his hands. If he went, he probably wouldn’t last a day before seeking out the closest pub.

“What the hell,” he muttered and turned on a light so he could see the number Madeline Barker had called him from.

Madeline raised her head and blinked at the shrill ring. Could it be morning? Already?

Her body felt stiff and sore. Squinting at her watch, she realized why. It was only one o’clock. She couldn’t have been asleep for more than twenty minutes, and slumping over her desk had put a crick in her neck.

The phone rang again. She almost dropped the handset but eventually brought it to her ear.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded throaty and low.

“Ms. Barker?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Hunter Solozano.”

She jumped up, then teetered on her feet for a moment. “What do you want, Mr. Solozano?”

“What airport should I use?”

“For…You’re coming? Here?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yes, but—” nerves made her scalp tingle “—we haven’t discussed any of the logistics.”

“I charge a thousand dollars a day, plus expenses.”

A thousand dollars a day! She clapped a hand over her mouth. But he didn’t pause.

“You said you had no worries about paying me. Is that still true?”

He cost a fortune. Even more than she’d expected. But she wasn’t about to admit she had any doubts. Not after what he’d said to her before. I think it’s the accent. Maybe she lived in the boondocks by his standards, but she was no uneducated, backward hick. “Sure. No problem,” she lied.

“Fine. I’ll need the first five thousand as a retainer.”

She bit her lip. That alone would wipe out her checking account and leave her short on next month’s bills. The paper was a labor of love but hardly a fabulous living. “How long do you think the…investigation will take?”

“I have no idea,” he said. “How committed are you to finding your father?”

She winced at the staggering financial implications. If Mr. Solozano stayed for a month, it’d cost her upward of $20,000. And that was taking weekends off.

But she’d tried everything else. This felt like her only hope. “More committed than I’ve ever been to anything.”

“Fine. I’ll be there on Thursday.”

She gulped. “So soon?”

“You’re in luck. I was planning a vacation that fell through.”

In luck? At one thousand dollars a day, plus expenses? “Um…just to clarify, your expenses would include what exactly? Airfare and hotel?”

“As well as a rental car, meals, any specialized tests we might need to run on the evidence I find, stuff like that.”

“I see.” The list could get long. And with his salary, the incidental expenses would be the least of her problems. But he sounded so confident when he mentioned evidence.

“Will you be making my hotel reservations or shall I?” he asked.

Transferring the phone from one hand to the other, Madeline wiped her palms, which had grown clammy, on her sweatpants. “I was thinking…I mean I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

She scowled at the impatience in his voice. “Is there any way we could cut corners a bit?”

“Cut corners?” he repeated suspiciously.

“I have a guesthouse. I thought maybe you could stay there. It’d be quiet,” she added. “I live alone.”

“And what will I drive?”

“My car.”

“And you’ll drive…”

“My stepbrother will let me borrow a truck from the farm. It might not look like much after hauling dirt and feed and who knows what else, but he’s always got an extra.”

Hunter didn’t seem to mind staying in her guesthouse and driving her car, because he agreed right away. “That’s fine. Does that mean you’re picking me up at the airport?”

If she played chauffeur, they’d be able to talk while she drove. Then he could start his investigation the moment he reached Stillwater. Saving whatever money she could seemed prudent, especially since she wasn’t sure hiring him would make any difference in the end. Would he find evidence everyone else had missed? Or would he be as ineffectual as the police?

Maybe she was bankrupting herself for nothing, for a hunger that could never be satisfied…

“Ms. Barker?”

She swallowed to ease a particularly dry mouth. “I’ll pick you up. Fly into Nashville, okay?”

“It’s closer than Jackson?”

“By two hours.”

“Okay. I’ll make my travel arrangements over the Internet and call you in the morning.”

“Fine.” She pretended to be as businesslike as he was. But when she hung up, she couldn’t tear her eyes from the phone.

“What have I done?” she breathed.