Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel (2 page)

“I know what a deer looks like, Deputy.” She jerked her
arm free of his and took a step back. If he wasn’t going to help her search, she’d continue alone. “It was a person.”

“Okay.” He held up his hands, palms toward her, in a placating gesture. “Man or woman?”

“Woman. I think.”

He tilted his head. “You think?”

Moira caught her lower lip between her teeth. “It was dark. I only got a glimpse of her in my headlights, and she was wet. But from the build, and her eyes . . . yes, I’d say it was a woman.”

“All right.” He gestured toward his car again. “Why don’t you sit and I’ll take a look?”

From his tone, she could tell he was humoring her.

And she didn’t like it.

But as long as he was willing to continue the search, she’d go along with him. Because she needed to sit. Fast.

Fortunately, she reached the patrol car at the same moment her legs buckled.

He made a grab for her and eased her down on the passenger side. “The ambulance will be here any minute. In the meantime, stay put. I’ll be right back.”

“That’s what the other guy said too.”

He cocked his head. “What guy?”

Oh yeah. She’d forgotten to mention that.

“A man stopped after the accident. He said he’d check on the woman I hit and call 911. I must have blacked out after that. When I came to, he was gone.”

“Was it another motorist?”

“I don’t know. He just appeared out of nowhere.”

Deputy Davis’s headlights were behind him, leaving his features shadowed, but Moira had no trouble reading the skepticism on his face.

“Look, I’m not making this up.” She glared at him. “There was a man here.”

“Okay. We’ll talk more in a minute.”

He closed her door, and she watched through the rain-
spattered window as he examined the skid marks with his flashlight. Checked the embankment on her side of the narrow road and the ditch on the other. Planted his free hand on his hip and stared into the empty darkness.

The throbbing in her head intensified.

He’d come up as empty as she had.

But how could that be? She hadn’t imagined the woman on the road. Her unsuccessful evasive maneuver was what had sent her skidding into a tree.

Based on the deputy’s expression when he rejoined her, however, he wasn’t buying her story.

Pulling open her door, he shrugged. “I don’t see anything, ma’am.” As another distant siren floated through the air, he gestured to her temple. “Head injuries can do strange things to the memory. And visibility was poor. Was this . . . person . . . running across the road?”

“No. I glanced away for a second to zip my purse after I felt around for my glasses, and when I looked up again, she was standing in the middle of the road, waving her arms.”

His eyebrows rose a notch. “You have glasses you weren’t wearing?”

Uh-oh. Big mistake. That admission would make her story even less credible.

She shifted in the seat. Time for damage control. “I have a pair for distance that I wear on occasion. As it turns out, I left them at home. But I can see well without them. They just enhance my night vision a little.”

Though he didn’t comment, his silence communicated a lot.

A gust of wind blew a spray of chilly drizzle through the door, adding another layer of cold dampness to her already-wet clothes. Moira shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. A real hug would be better, but this would have to do. Hugs had vanished from her life as surely as the figure in her headlights. The romantic kind, anyway.

“Where is home?” The officer shifted sideways to block some of the rain.

“St. Louis. Brentwood.” Her teeth started to chatter. “It’s a s-suburb.”

“I’m familiar with it.” The siren was close now, and he angled toward the approaching vehicle. “We’ll have some help for you in a minute. What brought you out here tonight?”

“I was in Augusta.”

“Pretty spot. Visiting the wineries?”

She heard the inference under the casual question. And resented it.

“I wasn’t drinking, Officer. I was w-working. The road was closed when I tried to leave, and I got turned around on the detour.”

“I’ll say. You weren’t even close.” He watched the ambulance pull into view and slow to a stop behind his car. “Let’s have the paramedics check you out. Then we’ll talk some more.”

He joined the technicians, who were climbing out of the vehicle. After exchanging a few words she couldn’t hear, all three walked her direction.

The technicians circled around toward her. The deputy slid into his own seat and began to fiddle with the computer. Running a license check, no doubt. Trying to determine if she was some nutcase.

But as she answered the paramedic’s questions and looked straight ahead while he flashed a light in each pupil, she knew Deputy Davis would find no explanation in her DMV file for her behavior tonight—nor anywhere else. She’d never gotten so much as a parking ticket. As he would discover, she was a normal, law-abiding citizen.

Unfortunately, in the absence of any supporting evidence, she doubted her clean record was going to convince him her story was true. He’d file a report citing her head injury and the lack of evidence to substantiate her claim, move on to the next call, and forget about tonight’s incident.

Truth be told, she couldn’t blame him. The whole scenario was bizarre. In his shoes, she might do the same.

In her shoes, however, the perspective was different.

She knew she’d hit someone with her car. A desperate woman who’d been seeking help.

And she knew something else too.

She wasn’t going to be able to file away this night and forget about it as easily as the responding cop would.

Because that woman’s terrified eyes weren’t going to let her.

M
oira parallel parked with two quick twists of her wrist, set the brake on her rental car, and eyed the discreet sign beside the storefront office on the Kirkwood side street.

Phoenix Inc.

This was the place.

And she must be nuts.

What sane person would set herself up for more humiliation?

Tapping a finger against the steering wheel, she frowned. So far, everyone had dismissed her tale about Friday night. That cop, the paramedics, the hospital personnel. On the plus side, no one had checked her for drugs. Or asked her to submit to a Breathalyzer test. They’d all agreed a deer was the likely cause of her wild spin across the road and had attributed her confusion to the mild concussion she’d sustained—no matter how vehemently she’d stuck to her story about the two people who had vanished.

And in her muddled state, she’d almost let them convince her.

But she wasn’t muddled anymore. After four days, the pounding in her head had subsided to a dull ache. And she was more certain than ever no deer had caused her accident.

Still . . . why waste her lunch hour on a beautiful day like
this to hole up with some private investigator who in all likelihood would come to the same conclusion as everyone else?

Yet as she watched a young mother, toddler in hand, window-shop on the quaint street, she knew the answer.

That woman’s eyes were haunting her. Day and night.

Despite the warmth of the sun coming through the windshield, a shiver swept through her. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t banish the chill from her heart or eradicate the lingering feeling of terror that woman had transmitted in a few fleeting seconds.

She had to do something. And with the police out of the picture, a PI was her only option. Otherwise, she’d never have mentioned the distressing incident to a co-worker—even if said co-worker happened to be one of her best friends from their college roommate days. But Linda’s crime beat gave her access to cops, and Moira wasn’t going to settle for anything less than a cop-recommended PI.

Ex-detective Cal Burke at Phoenix Inc. was the name that had come back.

And she had an appointment with him in—she checked her watch—five minutes.

Okay. Decision time.

Flee or forge ahead?

Capitulating with a sigh, she grabbed her purse and slid out of the car. As long as she was here, she might as well go in. If nothing else, this free consultation might provide some fodder for small talk at social events.

Like there were so many of those.

But that was a dilemma for another day.

As she crossed the street, she checked out the picture window to the right of Phoenix’s front door, hoping for a glimpse of the interior. No luck. The glass was tinted. And the door itself was a sturdy number. Solid wood—and locked. Only after she tried the knob did she notice the intercom and a small sign to the side, instructing visitors to press the button for entry.

It all seemed a bit cloak-and-daggerish, but what did she know? Most PIs handled a lot of messy divorce cases; maybe the Phoenix crew had had a few nasty encounters with irate spouses who didn’t appreciate being put under surveillance by their better—or worse—half.

She depressed the button, and a moment later a woman’s voice greeted her.

“How may I help you?”

“Moira Harrison. I have an appointment with Mr. Burke.”

“Yes. He’s expecting you. Please come in.”

A click sounded near the door, and Moira braced herself as she pushed through. From everything she’d heard, most private investigators operated on the cheap and at the fringes of the law. They might have glitzy websites, but a lot of them worked out of their cars.

Based on the reception area, however, Phoenix Inc. was several steps above that stereotype. A spotless, nubby Berber carpet covered the floor. Three chairs upholstered in a neutral, patterned fabric were clustered around a glass-topped coffee table off to one side. Colorful, artsy photos of landscapes and close-up still-life scenes covered the walls.

Classy.

Most of all, she liked the prominent rectangular wooden plaque with the brass lettering, which mirrored the wording on the Phoenix website: Justice First.

But there was one jarring element.

Moira tried not to stare at the twentysomething receptionist seated behind a cherry desk, but it was difficult not to with her triple-pierced ears, unicorn-tattooed forearm, and spiky platinum-blonde hair sporting a long swath of bright purple in the front. A necklace of shells lay against the modest neckline of her purple knit tunic—the hue an exact match for that swatch of hair. When she stood to circle the desk, her wide, studded belt came into view. As did black leggings and silver platform sandals. Iridescent plum toenail polish was the final touch.

Oh, brother.

Despite the impressive law-enforcement credentials listed for the three PIs on the Phoenix website, Moira was not getting positive vibes.

Tightening her grip on the strap of her shoulder purse, she took the hand the woman extended.

“Nikki Waters.” As the receptionist gave her a firm shake, some subtle change in her features told Moira that Nikki knew she’d been assessed and had come up lacking. Maybe it was the slight tapering of her eyes. Or the speculation in their depths.

But what did that slight twitch of amusement at her lips mean?

“Please have a seat.” Nikki gestured to the upholstered chairs. “I’ll let Cal know you’re here. Would you like some coffee or a soft drink?”

“No, thank you.”

The woman turned to go back to her desk.

Moira hesitated.

Stay or leave?

She cast another glance at the receptionist, who’d retaken her seat and picked up her phone. All the while watching her as if expecting she might bolt like a frightened rabbit.

Moira straightened her shoulders. Not happening. As long as she was here, she’d see this meeting through.

Calling the woman’s bluff, she chose a chair and planted herself.

But if Cal Burke came out with a mohawk or a shaved head or sporting an oversized medallion on a heavy gold chain, she was out of here.

Grin tugging at his lips, Cal dropped the receiver back into the cradle and stood. Once again, Nikki’s creative cue system had come in handy. Moira Harrison wasn’t just here. She was “waiting” to see him.

Translation: she was guarded and nervous and might not wait a whole lot longer.

He slipped his arms into the sport jacket he kept handy for initial meetings with wary clients. Time to pull out the stops to make a good first impression.

Settling the jacket with a flex of his shoulders, he exited his office and started down the short hall toward the reception area.

“Hey! You going to lunch?”

At Jim Devlin’s query, he paused in the doorway of his colleague’s office and surveyed the piles of paper on the desk and the mound of manila folders beside the filing cabinet.

“A little behind in our filing, are we?”

Dev narrowed his eyes. “I’ve been working round the clock on that workers’ comp case—as you well know. And since someone gave Nikki three weeks off for her honeymoon”—he arched an eyebrow at Cal—“who was I supposed to get to help me organize this stuff? The file fairy?”

“Now that’s an interesting picture.” Cal propped a shoulder against the door frame and slid his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “But look on the bright side. Maybe you’ll appreciate Nikki more now.”

“I appreciated her before.”

“Tell her that once in a while.”

“I watched her kid brother while she was in Hawaii on her honeymoon, didn’t I?”

Okay. He got points for that.

“So what about lunch?” Dev added another file to the towering stack on his desk. “I’m starving.”

“Can’t. I’ve got a consult with a new client. Bring me back a burger, okay? And fries.”

“I’ll consider it.” He leaned back in his chair and swiveled toward the window to survey the blue sky, fingers linked behind his head. “Nice day. I think I’ll try out that new sidewalk café down the street. Soak up some sun. Why let Connor get all the rays?” He swung back toward Cal. “Tell me again why
he got the executive security gig in Bermuda and I got the workers’ comp case?”

“Sorry, buddy. When the client saw Connor’s Secret Service background, it was a done deal.”

“So an ex–undercover ATF agent is chopped liver?”

“He didn’t want an ex–homicide detective, either. At least
you
have time to stop for lunch.” Cal pushed off from the door frame and started toward the reception area.

A chuckle followed him down the hall. “I’ll think of you while I laze around in the sun. Have fun!”

Fat chance. Wary clients had to be handled with kid gloves. And they weren’t usually a load of laughs.

On the plus side, though, Phoenix was in the enviable position of being able to be selective. If he didn’t get positive vibes, this meeting would be over fast. In which case he might be able to join Dev for lunch after all.

He smiled. A nice, juicy burger at a sidewalk café on a fine spring day. It didn’t get much better than that.

But when he opened the door to the reception area and Moira Harrison rose from her perch on the edge of her chair, all thoughts of the burger and the weather and the sidewalk café fled.

His potential client was a knockout.

Maintaining a neutral but pleasant expression, Cal took a quick inventory as he approached her. Early thirties. Slightly frizzy strawberry blonde hair that skimmed her shoulders. Green eyes. Height five-six, five-seven, using his own six-foot-two frame as a gauge. Her black slacks and subtly patterned black and gray jacket showed off her trim figure, and she was clenching the strap of her shoulder purse in a tight fist. Her posture was stiff. Her ring finger was bare.

She also sported a sizeable bruise on her temple that her soft, wispy bangs and a heavy application of makeup hadn’t quite been able to conceal.

While Cal did his rapid appraisal, she reciprocated. After
eight years as a cop and four years in this business, he was used to being sized up. It went with the territory.

When her grip on the purse strap loosened and the taut line of her shoulders relaxed a fraction, he knew he’d passed.

And for some weird reason, her tacit approval pleased him.

“Cal Burke.” He smiled and extended his hand. She took it, her slender fingers firm in his. “I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding us.” He released his grip and gestured toward the door that led to the hall, falling in behind her as she walked toward it.

“No. I used MapQuest. There weren’t any directions on your website.”

“On the left.” He pulled the door open, then motioned down the hall, ignoring Dev’s stretched neck and thumbs-up as he passed the other man’s door. “Most of our clients are referrals, and Nikki is always glad to provide directions. Please . . . make yourself comfortable.” He indicated a chair at the small round conference table in one corner as they entered his office.

While she settled in, he took his time retrieving a pen and a tablet of yellow lined paper from his desk. Cautious, uncertain clients needed a few moments to get comfortable. To build their confidence level. The law enforcement citations and commendations and diplomas on his wall did the trick in most cases—the very reason they were there.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her give his office a discreet perusal. If she was like many of his clients, she thought PIs belonged to one of two extremes: glitzy, Ferrari-driving investigators like Magnum PI, or sleazeballs on the shady side of the law who dug up dirt in messy divorce
cases.

Truth be told, Magnum was off the scale completely. Nobody could do a tail in a red sports car and not get made.

On the other hand, there were a lot of sleazeballs out there.

As she’d soon discover, however, Phoenix took the higher road. The sign in the lobby said it all.

He joined her at the table, checking out her clasped hands. Good. Her fingers had relaxed.

“I understand from your initial conversation with Nikki that one of my former detective colleagues at St. Louis County recommended us.”

“Yes. Cole Taylor, I believe. I asked a friend at the
Post-Dispatch
who covers the crime beat to check with her contacts. I didn’t want to take a chance by picking a firm at random.”

“And end up with a seedy investigator who works out of some dingy office, operates on the edge of the law, and spends his time digging up dirt on unfaithful spouses.”

A pink stain crept over her cheeks. To her credit, though, she didn’t try to deny he’d nailed her concerns.

“Something like that. I assumed the police wouldn’t recommend a firm they didn’t respect, and the ex–law enforcement credentials for the PIs on your website are impressive. So was the tagline about justice.”

“It’s more than a tagline. We live that motto.” Cal leaned back, keeping his posture open. Candid. “A lot of PIs will work for anyone who’s willing to pay the bill. We don’t. Because of the credentials you mentioned, we have more business than we can handle. Also, since the firm was established four years ago, we’ve solved a couple of police cold cases at the request of the families involved. That’s put us in the enviable position of attracting other interesting cases in addition to a lot of corporate, insurance, and protection work. Thanks to the demand for our services, we have the luxury of taking on only cases we think have merit.”