Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel (20 page)

“Helpful ones?”

“Maybe.”

“As I said, we’re looking at a Boy Scout here. There aren’t even any traffic citations on his record. No family ties, though, as far as I can tell.” She lowered the file. “Quite an impressive life in view of his less-than-ideal childhood.”

Dev drummed his fingers on his desk, frowning. “What about Faith Bradley?”

She closed the first file and opened the second one. “She was easy. Great Facebook presence. Age twenty-two. Born in Chicago, moved here for college. Dropped out two years ago but reenrolled in night school last fall. Lives in an apartment in South City. No problems with the law, either.”

“Any connection between the two?”

“Other than working at the same place, nothing that I could find.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Nikki closed the file and slid both onto his desk. “This doesn’t help much, does it?”

He leaned back in his chair. “No. But my gut tells me Hamilton has information he’s not sharing. And his background is interesting—a drug addict hooker for a mother and no father figure.”

“Sounds to me like he overcame those impediments.” Nikki leveled a direct look at him. “Some people do. Sometimes that kind of background is an incentive to create a better life.”

He’d put his foot in that one. “Not everyone rises above their upbringing like you did. That takes a lot of strength and fortitude.”

Her eyes widened, then thinned. “Is that on the level?”

“Yeah. I admire your accomplishments, even if I don’t say it very often.”

“Like never.”

“I don’t want you to get a swelled head.”

She snorted. “Like that’s gonna happen. Raising a teenager, even if he’s my brother, is a constant reminder of my shortcomings.” She stood. “If you need me to do anything else, let me know. In the meantime, I’ll surf some more as time permits and see if I can dig up a few more facts.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, she turned and disappeared into the hall.

Rocking forward in his chair, Dev pulled the files in front of him and tapped his finger against the top. Nikki was the best database searcher he knew. If this was all she’d come up with, there wasn’t much else to be found aside from a piece or two of stray information. There was nothing here to suggest the man was involved in anything nefarious.

Yet the Mr. Clean connection, combined with his own instincts, was enough to convince him Phoenix’s time would be well spent further investigating the man.

That left only one option.

Surveillance.

Putting someone on Hamilton’s tail 24/7 was going to be expensive, however, and would require client consent. Might obtaining that consent justify a visit with Laura?

No. A phone call would suffice. He needed to honor his promise to Cal and keep his distance from his client for now.

But as he reached for the phone to tap in her number, he couldn’t help wishing he was just a tad less conscientious.

At the vibration of her phone, Laura jerked and snatched it off her belt.

Dev.

The patron she’d been helping gave her a startled look.

“Sorry. I’ve been waiting for this call.”

“Go ahead and take it. I’d like to page through some of these books.”

With a nod, she retreated a few steps.

“Hi.” She kept her voice low in the hushed quiet of the library and put some more distance between herself and the man in search of books on woodworking. “Any news?”

She listened as he briefed her on his visit with Hamilton and his discovery that the woman who’d been watching the man’s house was a co-worker.

“What do you make of that?” She sent a quick look toward the white-haired man, who’d gone back to perusing the shelf of books she’d pointed out to him. He seemed absorbed for the moment.

“I don’t know. But I’ve been in this business long enough to know when someone’s trying to cover up something—and Hamilton’s behavior says cover-up loud and clear. That’s the main reason I called you. I think it’s worth putting round-the-clock surveillance on him for a few days, but that’s pricey and I wanted to get your approval.”

Laura didn’t hesitate. After seeing Dev in action, she trusted his instincts. “I’m fine with that.”

“Okay. Connor’s on him now at work, and I’ll take over later when he goes home. There’s a spot on a side street that will give us a view of both the exit for the dead-end alley in back, where Hamilton parks, and the front of the house. It would be easier to have two people on the job, but I don’t want to waste your money. If I think we need broader coverage at any point, I can always call in reinforcements.”

“That sounds reasonable.” She straightened a book about macramé on the shelf in front of her, noting the title on the spine.
Tied Up in Knots
. How appropriate, given the situation with Darcy—and her feelings about the man on the other end of the line.

“So is there anything else I can do to help? I’m off tomorrow, and other than running a few typical Saturday-morning errands, I’m free. I know Nikki is a whiz at database searches, but I’ve done a fair amount of those in my work too. Would you like me to see if I can find out anything more about Hamilton or Faith too?”

“It can’t hurt. The more eyes on this, the better.”

Silence fell between them, and she adjusted a bookend. He hadn’t mentioned the birthday dinner last night—nor suggested any further in-person contact. Was that because he was sorry he’d told her so much . . . or because he was simply too busy with the case?

She chose to believe the latter, even though his tone was far more professional than personal today.

“I guess I’ll hear from you if you have any news, then.”

“Of course. I always keep my client informed.”

Client.

That put her in her place.

Maybe he
was
regretting their intimate little interlude last night.

When the silence lengthened again, she realized it was her turn to speak. “All right. Thanks.” Her reply came out stiffer and more abrupt than she intended.

He noticed.

“Look, Laura, I need to keep some distance while this is an active investigation. Company policy. But once Darcy is home and the case is over, that rule won’t apply . . . unless you want it to.”

Meaning he wanted to see her after this was resolved—in a nonprofessional capacity. Her spirits lifted a notch. “I think we could dispense with the rule at that point.”

“I’ll look forward to that. Now, I’m off to relieve Connor, who no doubt has a hot date tonight.”

That’s right. It was Valentine’s Day.

“I’m sorry you have to spend the evening sitting in a cold car.”

She heard him sigh. “Me too. I can think of other places I’d rather be.” A spark of energy crackled over the line, and Laura’s heart skipped a beat. “However, I’ll console myself with the hope of a better Valentine’s Day next year. I’ll be in touch.”

“Okay. I’ll keep my cell with me at all times in case you have any news.”

The line went dead, and Laura slowly depressed the end button, visions of cupid dancing in her head.

“Excuse me . . .”

Clearing her throat, she composed her face and turned toward the patron, who held up a book with a porch swing on the cover.

“I wanted to thank you for helping me find this. I had no idea what project might catch my fancy, but this”—he tapped the photo of the swing—“will be the perfect gift for my wife’s birthday. We courted on a swing just like this.” The tips of the man’s ears pinkened as he tucked the book under his arm. “Next stop—pick up a bouquet of roses for my valentine.” With a wave, he headed toward the checkout desk.

Laura smiled as she watched him disappear. Ten minutes ago, she would have felt melancholy—and sorry for herself—at such an expression of sentiment. Now, she felt hopeful.

This year’s Valentine’s Day might be a bust.

But with a certain PI waiting in the wings, next year might be a whole different story.

S
tifling a yawn, Dev shook a handful of smoked almonds into his hand and tossed them into his mouth.

Some Valentine’s Day dinner.

He snagged the bottle of water from the Explorer’s cup holder, took a swig, and watched a cloud of breath form in front of his face. Too bad he hadn’t included a second thermos of hot coffee in his gear for the night—or rationed the one he’d brought instead of finishing it off forty-five minutes ago. He angled his wrist until the LED display on his watch came into view. Four hours since he’d relieved Connor of surveillance duty, eight to go.

It was going to be a long, cold night, even with the heat packs in his pockets, the Gore-Tex clothing, and the electric blanket plugged into the cigarette lighter.

Leaning to his right, he grabbed the night-vision binoculars from the seat beside him and fitted them to his eyes. All was quiet, which seemed to be par for the course. He’d recorded zero activity all evening in the case log beside him. According to Connor, the man had arrived home about four-thirty, and he hadn’t budged or had any visitors since.

Their subject was spending a quiet Valentine’s Day too.

As Dev swept the binoculars toward the alley, headlights suddenly appeared. A moment later, a slate-colored Nissan Maxima rolled into view. He focused on the license plate.

Hamilton.

Dev’s pulse took an uptick as he set the binoculars back on the passenger seat, flipped the switch that would cut off all exterior lights on the SUV, and turned the key in the ignition. It was possible the daycare manager had a late-night rendezvous with a Valentine’s Day date, but he’d lay odds the man with the chapped hands didn’t have romance on his mind at this hour of the night. Most people who’d put in a full week of work were thinking sleep by eleven o’clock, not going out to start an evening of socializing.

The Maxima paused at the exit of the alley, then moved onto the street, heading west.

Dev shoved the blanket out of his way and fell in behind him, keeping a prudent distance between them on the deserted, snow-packed side streets. If Hamilton spotted him, future surveillance would prove fruitless. The man would be on guard constantly.

After several turns, Hamilton emerged onto Jefferson Avenue. Was he heading for the highway access point a short distance away?

Dev had his answer a few minutes later when the man edged into the lane for the entrance ramp of westbound I-44.

This was getting interesting.

Once Hamilton turned left and accelerated onto the ramp, Dev increased the pressure on his gas pedal and flipped on his lights. It would be more difficult to keep the man in view on the highway, but with the additional traffic there’d also be less risk of getting spotted.

At the top of the ramp, Dev caught sight of the Maxima two cars ahead, traveling at a fast clip. The man either had a heavy foot or was in a hurry to get somewhere.

As they traveled west, Dev varied the distance between them, keeping one or two cars as a buffer. Whenever the traffic thinned, he dropped back.

Five minutes out of downtown, flashing lights caught his attention ahead. Most likely it was a spinout on the still-icy roads. He slowed his speed to match that of the cars around him.

Flares and cones reduced the traffic flow to a single lane, but with
just one car separating him from Hamilton, Dev had no problem keeping him in sight as they approached the floodlit accident site.

At least he didn’t until one of the cops working the scene stepped in front of the car preceding him, held up a hand, and motioned the wrecker with a mangled car attached to it into the traffic lane.

Muttering a word that wasn’t pretty, Dev tightened his grip on the wheel as the taillights on Hamilton’s car melted into the night and disappeared.

Talk about rotten timing.

A full minute passed while the driver of the wrecker jockeyed the vehicle back and forth, and Dev felt his blood pressure inch toward combustion level. Could the man move any slower?

He drummed his fingers on the wheel, compressing his lips into a thin line. For someone who’d once tailed a suspected terrorist bomber through the teeming streets of New York City without losing him, he’d made a pathetic showing tonight.

But maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to catch up to Hamilton.

By the time the cop waved the traffic through and Dev could pick up speed, however, he knew it was a lost cause. The road was deserted, and Hamilton had been pushing the speed limit. He was probably long gone.

Still, he continued west for five more minutes . . . hoping.

But the daycare center manager had vanished.

Giving up the chase at last, he exited and retraced his route to Hamilton’s house to await the man’s return. If nothing else, he could determine how long their subject was gone.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to answer the key question.

Where had Mark Hamilton gone at such a late hour on this cold winter night?

“Turn right, one hundred yards.”

As the British-accented voice of his GPS guided him the last quarter of a mile to his destination, Mark surveyed the snow-covered
terrain. The quiet neighborhood was exactly what he’d expected after studying the aerial and street views on Google maps.

“Turn right.”

Following the GPS prod, he discovered that the hill he’d seen on his computer screen was longer and steeper than the imagery had suggested. It also contained patches of ice. No other drivers were on the road, and only a few cars were parked on either side.

Perfect.

He made the climb slowly, as if he was just being a cautious driver.

“You have reached your destination.”

Mark slowed even more as he approached the small bungalow on his left with the attached one-car garage—the one the address on Darcy’s driver’s permit had guided him to. There was no external lighting except for low-wattage dawn-to-dusk lanterns on either side of the front door, and the house was dark inside; her half sister must be asleep.

Also perfect.

He passed Laura’s house, drove to the end of the cul-de-sac, and started back. Two houses before hers, he eased onto the side of the road, parked, and killed his lights.

Once more, he inspected the slumbering neighborhood. He’d wait awhile, perhaps as long as an hour, to be certain there was no unexpected activity.

Then he’d make his move.

He turned off the engine, reached for the thermos beside him, and poured a cup of tea. The unaccustomed late night and delayed bedtime would take a toll tomorrow, but it was Saturday; he could compensate by sleeping in. After all the trouble she’d caused, Darcy could wait an extra couple of hours for her breakfast.

Resting one arm on the wheel as he drank his tea, he thought through his plan again, twisting around to eyeball the equipment on the seat behind him. No matter which form of entry he chose after he scoped out the place, he was covered. Once inside, he’d do the job and get out fast.

A mirthless grin twisted his lips. There wasn’t much he was grateful for from his old life, but he’d picked up a few questionable skills in his younger years that came in handy on occasion.

He settled back in his seat as the cold outside air began to seep inside, stealing the warmth from the car.

But that wasn’t a problem.

After setting his tea in the cup holder, he zipped his thermal jacket all the way to the neck and tugged on fleece-lined gloves. He’d been cold many times in the past, with only a red nose and the sniffles to show for it.

Tonight’s payoff, however, would be worth the discomfort.

Because come tomorrow, if all went as he hoped, Laura would either be far too distracted to bother him anymore and would let the search for Darcy lapse—or she’d be out of the picture altogether.

Either alternative suited him just fine.

Where was Mark?

Darcy wiped her damp palms down her baggy slacks as she paced.

Ten feet one way.

Ten feet the other way.

Repeat.

Why hadn’t he delivered her breakfast and lunch? He always came through the door with food by six-ten. It was now eight-thirty. Nor had she heard the muted sound of running water in the pipes that always signaled his rising.

What was going on? Had he decided to . . .

Wait.

She stopped, frowning. It was hard to keep track of the days down here, but this was Saturday, wasn’t it? Maybe he followed a different routine on the weekends.

Combing her fingers through her hair, she fought back a wave of panic. Two hours ago, she’d been psyched up to carry out her
plan. When he hadn’t shown, however, the adrenaline rush had subsided. Now she was just plain scared.

But fear was her enemy. She had to keep it at bay. Had to be positive. Had to continue believing the plan would work despite the delay.

Because this was her only chance of escape.

It
had
to work.

Forcing down the flutters in her stomach, she resumed pacing and listening.

Five minutes later, she heard the muffled sound of water rushing through the pipes. A toilet was flushing.

Her adrenaline surged.

This was it.

Heart hammering, she scurried toward the bathroom. Once inside, she turned on the shower, raised the water temperature to hot, and exited, pulling the door closed behind her except for a six-inch crack. Then she took up her position beside the door that led into the main part of the basement, crouching down as far as possible, flattening herself against the wall, praying she was hidden from the peephole lens. She had to be invisible to him for this to work.

As the minutes ticked by, steam began to seep through the bathroom door, just as she’d planned.

If all went well, Mark would see the steam through the peephole and assume she was taking a shower. He’d never think she was lying in wait, ready to spring at his legs, knock him to the floor, and sprint toward safety.

Please, God, let this work so I can save Laura—and maybe myself.

Faith edged into a parking spot in front of Mark’s house, shut off the engine, and shoved the pan of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls on the seat beside her farther away. Normally the savory aroma
would set off a rumble in her stomach, but this morning it made her more nauseous than hungry.

What if Mark didn’t appreciate her early visit, despite the homemade offering she’d risen at 5:00 a.m. to bake?

What if he was sleeping in and she woke him up?

What if he thought she was being too forward?

But what else could she do? No matter what she tried at work, to him she was nothing more than an employee. Even the hand lotion hadn’t helped change that perception, though he was using it. She could smell the faint fragrance whenever he passed her in the hall. Since a personal gift like that hadn’t worked, however, this was her only option.

She picked up the pan of rolls and juggled it in her hands. Best case, he’d invite her in to share them over a cup of coffee. That would be a great way to start a Saturday morning.