Family Ties (Flesh & Blood Trilogy Book 2) (5 page)

“I’m not leaving you alone at a time like this,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll stay with you.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course. Besides, I’ve got nothing better to do. How about some ice cream?”

This brought a smile to Harper’s face. “I’d love some.”

***

We parked in the Bruster’s Ice Cream parking lot, killing time. I had ordered my favorite, Oreo Cheesecake, and Harper had gone with Cotton Candy Explosion.

“So what are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to go to my empty home, drink a bottle of wine, and cry myself to sleep,” she said with a shrug.

“No, I don’t just mean tonight. I mean, beyond that. Do you have kids?”

“No. No kids. And no job, either. So I have no idea what I’m going to do. I used to work in IT at the bank before Brad and I got married, but he never wanted a wife that worked, so I quit after our wedding.”

IT. She had mentioned she was good with computers during our first conversation. The idea came to me almost immediately.

“You could work for me,” I offered cautiously.

“Work for you? But I don’t know anything about being a private investigator.”

“No, not as an investigator. I could really use someone with good computer skills. Someone to take my calls, set appointments, do some research, etcetera. I really need someone to help me with my father’s case. What do you say?”

Harper thought about this briefly then turned to face me. She reached out her hand. “You’ve got a deal, partner.”

Chapter 5

Within two weeks, I’d found a little house to rent in Nicholasville and moved in. It was a quaint little Cape Cod on West Chestnut Street with white vinyl siding, maroon shutters, and a matching door. There were three bedrooms, which was two more than I needed, but the price was right and the upstairs loft was perfect for an office. I bought some cheap office furniture from people I met on the local Facebook Yard Sale page and spent all of one Saturday painting everything white so it would all match. Dani even came down and helped me paint the inside walls to a nice neutral beige instead of the hideous maroon and hunter green the owner had chosen. I hung my degree and investigator’s certificates in white wooden frames on the walls and put up a corkboard for posting messages and notes. The house now had a nice, cozy, neutral feel about it.

Harper came over nearly every day to help with a couple of cases I picked up, thanks to her referral and my Craigslist ad—one bail jumper and two more cheating spouses. We quickly became friends as well as business associates and I relied on her heavily for support. She even helped me set up an LLC using LegalZoom.com with the company name she came up with—Thoroughbred Investigations. Kentucky is considered the “horse capital of the world,” so the name was perfect.

It was a Tuesday morning when I received a collect call from Big Sandy Federal Penitentiary. I accepted.

“Hello, Randy.”

“Hey, Libs. Have you made any progress on my case?”

I figured I might as well be honest with him. “No, sorry. I’ve been busy setting up my company, but I plan on starting this week.”

“I understand. Gotta get those bread-and-butter cases going. Anything interesting?”

One of my cheating spouse cases had, in fact, been very interesting, but I wasn’t really ready to chit-chit with Randy like a normal father and daughter would just yet, so I avoided the question. “Is there anything else I should know before I start digging around?”

He was silent for a brief moment, then said, “No, nothing I can think of.”

“Great. So I have nothing to go on, besides your word that you’re innocent. That and five dollars won’t get me a Starbucks coffee. But I’ll do the best I can. The problem, Randy, is that you have no alibi for the times when any of the women went missing. That’s part of what sunk you the first time around…that and your confession.”

“Yeah, I know. But I was a trucker, Libs. I was on the road constantly.”

“If I’m going to work on your case, Randy, I have to know one thing.”

“Shoot.”

“Why did you confess? If you didn’t do any of it, if you’re really innocent, why on earth would you confess to being a serial killer?”

Again, he didn’t answer right away. “You wouldn’t understand, even if I tried to explain it to you.”

“Try me,” I said seriously.

Then an automated voice came on the line, advising us there were only thirty seconds left before the call would disconnect.

“Some other time,” he said. “Just do me a favor and get the file from my attorney. Everything you need to know should be in that file. Do you know how to find him?”

“If he’s still alive, yes, I’ll find him.”

“Great, Libs. Again, I can’t thank you enough for…”

And the line went dead.

“Your father?” Harper asked me when I laid the phone back down on the kitchen counter.

“The one and only.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Nothing helpful, unfortunately. Do me a favor, will ya? See if you can track down an old attorney named B. Cecil Hayes. He’d be old as dirt now, if he’s even still alive, so I doubt he’s still practicing. I just need a phone number or an address.”

“I’m on it,” Harper said as she left the kitchen and headed upstairs to the office.

Since the big showdown at the Howard Johnson, Harper had stuck to her word and made Brad leave the house and filed for divorce. Brad, despite his protestations of love and devotion that day in the parking lot, had immediately run back into the arms of his slutty secretary, Shelly. In Harper’s mind, this proved she had made the right decision.

I had helped Harper find a good divorce attorney, Ava Winters, of the law firm Winters, Turner & Burton, who had a reputation for being a pit bull in the courtroom. She was going to need it, though. Since Brad had been the sole breadwinner of the household and Harper had stayed home at his behest, a relatively decent amount of spousal support was likely. However, since they didn’t have kids, and Brad had mortgaged the house solely in his name, he would likely get to keep it, once the dust settled. I told Harper she could stay with me, since I had more room than I needed. She had taken me up on the offer, even though she hated the thought of her husband bringing his dirty mistress into their marital home.

“Let him have it,” I told her one day, when she’d called me after learning he’d probably get to keep the house. “You don’t want to live in a big house full of bad memories all by yourself, anyway.”

She’d agreed and moved in with me within a week.

Harper returned just a few moments later as I was throwing frozen pizzas in the oven, nostalgic for the days when I had a husband to cook actual dinners for. She had a sheet of computer paper held out toward me.

“Found him,” she said proudly.

“Already? That was fast.”

“I told you, I’m good.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s retired—which should be obvious, since he’s ninety-two years old. He lives in a townhouse in the Henry Clay district of Lexington.”

I looked at the clock on the wall. It was eight o’clock at night. Too late to call an old man, I reasoned. My grandparents, I recalled, used to go to bed early and wake up at the crack of dawn.

“We’ll call him tomorrow,” I said decisively. “You up for some Tombstone pepperoni?”

“Always.”

***

I set my alarm for seven the next morning and rushed through my morning routine of showering, brushing my teeth, blow-drying my hair, and pulling on a pair of jeans and one of Ryan’s old Scott Miller t-shirts. When eight o’clock rolled around, I figured it was late enough in the morning to ring the old attorney. It rang several times, but just as I was about to hang up, he answered.

“Hello?” He sounded every bit his ninety-plus years with his soft, quavering voice.

“Is this B. Cecil Hayes?”

“Yes. How may I help you?”

“My name is Libby Carter. My maiden name is McLanahan. You represented my father many years ago. His name was—”

“Randall. Yes, I remember. How is he?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess. Listen, Mr. Hayes. I have a huge favor to ask you.”

“Go on.”

“Do you by any chance still have my father’s file? I know it’s been twenty years, but I was hoping—”

“Well,” he sighed and I pictured him rubbing his wrinkly temple as he contemplated my question. “I suppose it’s here somewhere. I’ve kept all my old files. Especially from the bigger cases, like your father’s. Say, what’s this all about?”

“All due respect, Mr. Hayes, but I would rather explain it in person. Is there any way you’d be willing to meet with me today? I’d like to borrow your file on his case. I’ll explain everything when I get there.”

“I suppose that would be all right. That is, if I have your father’s permission.”

“He’s still at Big Sandy. I’ll arrange for him to call you before I get there. Is it okay if I come, say, around three o’clock?”

“Yes, that’d be fine. Let me give you directions—”

“No need. We got your address from the internet. I’ll just put the address in my phone and get directions that way.”

“Oh, I keep forgetting about all this new-fangled technology. All right, then. I’ll see you at three.”

After I hung up, I asked Harper to contact the prison and explain that Randy needed to call his attorney.

“Tell them it’s about his case. They have to let him make the call then.”

“I’m on it.” Harper bounded up the stairs and returned only a few minutes later. “They’re going to have him call now.”

“Great. Thanks. I’m so glad I hired you.”

“You should be,” Harper said with a self-satisfied smile.

***

Factoring in downtown Lexington traffic, we left the house on West Chestnut Street a little after two. Even though Nicholasville was less than ten miles south of Lexington as the crow flies, it usually took at least half an hour to make it downtown, due to traffic. The beautiful and historic Henry Clay district was located just a little east of the middle of town. Central to the area was Ashland, historic home of Henry Clay, a famous Kentucky politician from the early 1800’s. Ashland was a lovely brick mansion, which sat on several acres of lush green landscaping. People from all over America made the sojourn yearly to Lexington, just to visit the former plantation. All of the houses subsequently built around Ashland were large, pretty, and surrounded by tall oak trees which lined the streets and cast divine shade over the sidewalks. Most Lexingtonians envy those fortunate enough to live in this district.

B. Cecil Hayes was one of those fortunate souls. His house, located at the end of Margaret Street, adjacent to the Idle Hour Country Club, was a grey-stone Tudor-style cottage with black shutters and a black front door. Beautifully tended pink Knockout roses nearly covered the front windows. Harper and I walked up the short sidewalk to the front door and I rang the doorbell. I could hear the melodic chime through the door followed by the voice of Mr. Hayes telling us he was on his way.

The door opened and there stood the very old attorney, bent forward with age, leaning his weight on a gnarled wooden cane with an amber-colored glass knob on top. He was wearing a brown suit, which nearly swallowed him whole, and a yellow button-up shirt, no tie.

“You must be Ms. McLanahan,” he said with a pleasant smile.

“Actually, it’s Ms. Carter. But you can just call me Libby. This is my assistant, Harper.”

He took a step to the side. “Well, it’s nice to meet you lovely ladies. Right this way, please.” He stretched out his arm, indicating we should step into the house.

I couldn’t help but admire the original dark wood flooring, polished to a high shine. The walls were covered in hunter green and gold-patterned wallpaper and several framed paintings of famous racehorses lined the walls. The furniture looked to be antique and very expensive.

We followed him through the living room and down the hallway until we turned right into a room at the back of the house—apparently his office.

“The file you’re seeking is around here somewhere,” he said as he shuffled across the dark green carpet. “Your father called from the prison not long after we hung up and gave his permission for you to have it.”

“That’s good,” I said as I glanced around the dark room, wondering how on earth he was going to find the file. Despite the nearly immaculate nature of the rest of his house, Mr. Hayes’s office was a wreck. Manila file folders were strewn about all over the floor, his desk, and on the large dark wood bookshelves. There was barely room to walk. Harper and I had to tiptoe around the piles of file folders to avoid tripping over them.

He walked around behind the antique cherry desk and started rummaging through a tall stack of files.

“Ah,” he said after a few awkward minutes of silence. “Found it.”

Mr. Hayes produced a very thick file folder with a blue striped label and my father’s name on it, bound with a large red rubber band. He extended it in my direction and I grabbed it with both hands.

“Now,” he said as he sunk down in his maroon wingback leather chair. “On the phone earlier, you promised to tell me why you need this file.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell Mr. Hayes everything, but I knew I would need his input and that he might have a lot of information I needed if I was going to have any chance at helping Randy. “Recently, I became a private investigator. When I told my father, he surprised me by telling me he is innocent and he asked me to look into his case…see if I could exonerate him.”

Mr. Hayes whistled as he leaned back in his big chair, the leather squeaking. “Interesting.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because, my dear, your father confessed…of his own free will. I was preparing to take his case to trial, until one day he told me he wanted to confess and take a plea deal. Just like that. No warning. I always just assumed he was guilty.”

“Didn’t that strike you as odd, though? That he confessed out of the blue like that?”

“Well, I suppose it did, but it wasn’t the first time one of my clients had a sudden change of heart. The prospect of a lengthy trial can be quite daunting and scary, especially if you really are guilty. Trusting your fate to the hands of twelve strangers is like shooting craps at a casino. The die could come up any way. Some people just can’t handle the stress and the uncertainty. But in your father’s case, I suppose it did strike me as a bit odd.”