Читать книгу For Joy's Sake - Tara Taylor Quinn - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

HUNTER DIDN’T CALL Julie Sunday night. She’d had to leave the festival, which obviously meant she’d had something else to do. Or so he chose to think.

She wasn’t a micromanager. So she didn’t need to be told immediately that he’d hired the girls for her gala.

And...he wanted to call her badly enough that he shut himself down. He wasn’t desperate. Had never had to be overeager.

And to prove that to himself, he called a woman friend of his, one he’d been dating casually on and off for years, and took her to dinner and then to a club. He enjoyed himself just fine. More importantly, she enjoyed herself.

Mandy was fun. Vivacious. She was easy to please, and pleased to be with him. Best of all, like him, she had no expectations beyond having a good time with someone she could trust. Had no interest in more than that. The only reason he’d ended the evening early—when she’d made it clear that the night could extend until morning—was that he had an 8:00 a.m. meeting, followed by a packed Monday and a busy week.

But he’d see her again soon.

He’d assured her of that. And had won a glowing smile and intimate kiss for his trouble.

Mandy was the woman he wanted to be thinking of when he woke the next morning, made his way out to the kitchen of his high-end beach condo to put on the coffee, and headed to the shower. Mandy. Not his festival companion.

Julie Fairbanks was only on his mind because he had to remember to let her know he’d signed the girls, and he hadn’t put the reminder on his phone.

That need to call her, in the middle of such a jam-packed week, was why she was the first thing on his mind when the phone rang just as he was pulling on a polo shirt. Grabbing the sports coat that matched his pants and gave the shirt the business touch it required, he reached for his phone.

Dad.

“Hey, what’s up?” he answered, slipping into expensive loafers and shoving his wallet in his back pocket before picking up his keys from the nightstand. He’d spoken with both of his parents—separately, of course—the morning before. His regular check-in. But he and his dad, who’d moved to Florida after his parents’ divorce ten years before, chatted frequently. Mostly about golf scores and such.

“I need a favor, son.”

Son. Not Buddy, the nickname his father most often used. Or Hunter. Which generally meant his father wasn’t too pleased with him.

Son. Hunter paid attention.

“Sure. What’s up?” His father was a wealthy man. He could afford to buy just about any favor he needed. And that probably meant it involved his mother. Again.

Karen Rafferty only contacted her ex-husband when she had to. Still, she had a way of pissing his father off—almost as if she was doing it on purpose, as his father sometimes thought. Hunter was more inclined to believe that after so many years of living with a man who didn’t give her what she needed, Karen’s reactions to her ex-husband were automatic. And automatically negative. She was otherwise a kind, decent woman.

As his father was the first to acknowledge.

“You remember Betty’s brother, Edward?”

Betty...John Rafferty’s wife. Hunter’s stepmother of nine years. And Edward...

“Yeah, he was at your wedding,” Hunter said. He pictured the man, about his father’s age, a primary care doctor like his dad, and boating enthusiast, as he recalled.

A widower. With a pretty companion whose name he couldn’t remember and whose relationship with Edward reminded Hunter of him and Mandy now. Enjoying each other with no strings attached.

“He needs your help, Hunter. Anything you can do... You know so many people.”

While John’s California contacts were ten years in the past and mainly in San Diego.

“Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“His daughter is—”

Standing in his kitchen, near the door that led to his garage, Hunter shook his head. “I don’t remember a daughter. Was she at the wedding?”

Granted, he’d been a bit put out by the speed with which his father had found a new wife in his new town, concerned that the woman was using him. But now that he knew Betty, a nurse in the building where John had his private practice, he approved wholeheartedly.

“No. That’s all part of the problem. He hasn’t seen her in practically a decade. Her mom died twelve years ago. Edward buried himself in work, and Cara got in with the wrong people. You know how it is on certain parts of the beach—easy to find crowds to lose yourself in.”

Hunter, with his love of a good time coupled with the cold-war atmosphere in his home, had come close to losing his whole future on the beach in San Diego. Until his father had set him straight, telling him that his love of a good time was not something to be thrown away, but to be capitalized on. It was his talent, and he needed to use it wisely.

“She met a guy who ran some surfing school shortly after her mother died. Edward was sure the school was a front for drugs, but the more he questioned, the more Cara pulled away, saying that he just didn’t want her to be happy. She ended up following the guy to California, where he started a second surfing school. They got married. Had a little girl... He hired someone to check up on her over the years, just to make certain she was okay.”

Hunter wasn’t seeing the problem. He was seeing valuable time slip away. But when his dad called, he listened. “So the business was legit, and everything worked out.”

“Edward hoped the business was legit, that she was healthy and happy. Cara hasn’t contacted him in years or responded to any of his efforts to contact her. At one point, before they left Florida, the guy, Shawn Amos, warned Edward to leave Cara alone. Said that Edward did nothing but make her unhappy. Edward was certain, even then, that Shawn was the biggest problem between him and Cara. He says Amos turned Cara against him. He tried to tell Cara, but any time Edward said anything that could be even vaguely construed as a criticism of Shawn, Cara got defensive and quit listening to him.”

He was sorry for the guy. But he didn’t see what he could do. He was a party thrower, not a trouble solver, and he had to get to work.

They had a dozen events that week, and while he had staff to handle most of the on-site logistics, he always showed up.

“What kind of trouble is she in?”

The phone call to Julie would have to wait. He didn’t want it to be rushed. Just in case he could get her to engage in more than a brief business discussion. Still standing in his kitchen, he looked out toward the beach and realized how long it had been since he’d been out there for the sheer sake of enjoying himself, enjoying the surf. He’d known some great guys who taught surfing...

“She’s missing, Hunter.”

“Hey, wait a minute, Dad. He needs to call the police. Not me. I’m no investigator. I don’t even know an investigator.” Wait, yes, he’d just met one—Julie’s sister-in-law, Chantel.

Just as Hunter was about to suggest Chantel to his father, John said, “The cops know, Hunter. They’re looking for her. That’s not the favor.”

Completely focused now, Hunter stopped thinking about the time he was losing. “What can I do to help?”

“Edward’s granddaughter is staying with a friend, a neighbor, for the moment, but if Child Protective Services gets involved, she might be sent to strangers. She has an aunt, Shawn’s sister Mary, who’s in the hospital in critical condition. She’s in and out of consciousness, but she said that Shawn beat her up and that he hurt Cara, too. She also said Cara told her to take Joy and run. Mary’s the last known person to have seen either Cara or Shawn. The family van is still parked at the residence.”

The whole thing was way over his head. Completely outside any area of expertise he’d ever even thought about having. His father had to know that. “What can I do?” he asked again.

“Edward is flying to LA this morning. He plans to stay until his daughter’s found. But his first concern is his granddaughter. He wants to make certain that until her father’s in custody, she’s in a safe place and out of the foster care system.”

Finally, he understood. “Edward needs a place to stay,” he said. “You want him to bunk with me.” The condo had four bedrooms: his, the one with a desk and computer in it for when he worked from home, and two that were ready for guests. “I’m an hour and a half north of the city, but of course, he’s welcome. Right now. For as long as he needs. Is he renting a car?”

Hunter had vehicle rental connections.

“Or if he needs a place in the city,” he added, “let me know.”

He had connections there, too. A file folder filled with them.

“I was hoping you’d contact your friend Brett Ackerman, son. You said he shocked everyone a couple of years ago, admitting that he was the founder of a women’s shelter...”

“Yeah. The Lemonade Stand.” He didn’t know all that much about it. Brett kept a hands-off approach. Hunter had thrown some fund-raisers for the Stand, but never on-site. Or even close to the site. And, as always, he didn’t ask a lot of questions about what went on beyond his need-to-know part. He’d learned early on that he couldn’t do his job, wouldn’t have time to help as many charities as he did, if he delved into all the causes for which his clients were fighting.

“As Edward understands it, Mary—Cara’s sister-in-law—doesn’t have much money. And if she’s close to Cara, she probably won’t take any from him. But if he could pay Brett, make a donation to the shelter, I...thought maybe they’d have a place for Mary and Joy there, just until the cops find Shawn and we know they’re safe...”

“I can talk to Brett, sure, but what about Edward? You said he’s flying in today. Where does he plan to stay? I assume he’s meeting with whatever police department has his daughter’s case. You have a cell number so I can contact him?”

“He’s got a room at a place there in Santa Raquel,” John said. “Because I suggested he stay close to you.” His father’s faith in him had been steadfast. “Ventura police have jurisdiction over the case.”

About an hour north of LA, forty-five minutes or so south of Santa Raquel, the beach town was a place where teenagers liked to party. Hunter had never set a function there. But a surfing company made sense...

“What hospital is the aunt in? And what’s her full name?”

“Mary Amos. Unmarried. Twenty-seven years old. She works at a gift shop down by the Ventura pier. She’s at Ventura County Medical Center.”

With a Bluetooth earpiece keeping him connected to his father, he took the details on his phone. “And what’s Edward’s last name again?” Betty was a Rafferty now. Until she’d married John, he’d had no reason to know her as anything but Betty.

“Mantle.”

Like Mickey Mantle. He remembered now. Dr. Mantle.

“The little girl, Joy, how old is she?”

“Seven.”

He took down Edward’s cell number, flight and hotel information next.

“Got it,” he said, keys in hand, phone in his pocket, as he headed for the door. “Tell Edward not to worry. And to call me when he gets in,” he said before he clicked the earpiece and started another call.

As he waited for Brett Ackerman to answer, his dad’s effusive thanks echoed through his mind. Bothering him, oddly enough. This was serious stuff, and he wasn’t doing anything but making a phone call.

The doctors in the world healed pain. The cops punished those who created pain. And Hunter...he was the guy who had a lot of contacts and knew how to put on a good party. Who could always be counted on to lighten the mood.

He was the fun guy.

Not the lifesaver.