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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Whispers
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“I just don't understand why he doesn't leave his name or number—why he keeps missing me.” Her desk was still messy, a few files piled on one corner, reference books open near her computer monitor, a half-full cup of coffee gone cold where she'd left it near her calendar.
“You ever thought he's one of those stalkers?”
Of course she had. “He's too close. Taking too many risks.”
“Fits a stalker's M.O., if you ask me.”
Miranda plucked her raincoat from a hook on the back of the door and slung the coat over one arm. “Tell me about him.”
“This is the third time he's been in.” Louise held up three slim fingers. “He was here yesterday and the day before. Won't leave his name, and when I suggest he talk to someone else, he seems to disappear.”
“What's he look like?” She'd never asked before; hadn't had the time or the interest, but the man was starting to get on her nerves—worry her a little.
“That's the kicker,” Louise said, showing off even white teeth in her first smile of the afternoon. “He looks like he could have stepped off the pages of a Marlboro ad. You know the kind. Rugged, not polished, black hair, gray eyes that don't smile much. Intense. Six feet, maybe six-one or -two, lean and always dressed in jeans and a shirt—no tie, just some kind of leather jacket that's seen better years.”
“So he doesn't scare you?”
“Not really, but then I don't scare easily,” Louise said, her smile fading. Miranda thought about Louise's ex-husband, a man who had battered her, threatening her life for several years, before Louise had found the strength to get out and walk away from a violent marriage. “But there's something about him I don't trust. When he couldn't get past me, he stopped by Debbie's desk, leaned his hips against it, smiled, and turned on the charm.”
“He had some?” Miranda asked.
“Yeah—a little. If you like men who can turn it on at will—crooked smile, dimple, all at once Mr. Hard-As-Nails is the Boy Next Door. That's what's scary about him, if you ask me. Anyway, he started asking Debbie all sorts of questions. About you. Personal questions. She couldn't answer 'em, of course, was practically tongue-tied around the man, and when I strolled over, he made a quick exit.”
“Maybe he's a reporter.” Slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, Miranda hauled her briefcase from the desk.
“Then why not leave a card? A phone number? Make a damned appointment? Huh? I'm telling you, girl, there's something not right about this guy. He's not on the up-and-up.”
“We get a lot of those around here.”
Louise shook her head. Black curls glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights. “No, we don't, honey, not in the DA's office, and even though the guy doesn't look like a crazy with a gun, you can't be too careful these days.”
“Petrillo's checking him out, though, right?”
Louise lifted a shoulder. “Trying to.”
“Don't worry about it,” Miranda said, pausing at the door. “I've got a few days off. Maybe whoever he is, he'll give up and crawl back under the rock he calls home.”
“Like Ronnie Klug did.”
The muscles in the back of Miranda's neck tightened, and she nearly missed a step. Inadvertently, she touched her throat, felt the tiny trace of a scar, then let her hand drop.
“I don't think—”
“This could be another guy you sent to prison, Randa. You've been at this job long enough that some of those boys are getting out now.”
“The man who was here is an ex-con?”
“I don't know. Doesn't look like it, but you can't ever tell. Remember Ted Bundy? Good-looking. Charming. A real lady-killer.”
Couldn't argue with that kind of logic. “Point well taken.”
“Okay. So Petrillo's looking through mug shots of every guy or boyfriend of a woman you sent away. Trouble is, the list is pretty long.”
“Besides, you can always reach me on my cell phone or e-mail.”
“By then it might be too late.”
“Look, Louise. Don't lose any sleep over it, okay? Just because a guy comes snooping around—”
“Is reason enough to be worried. This man looks determined, the kind of person who doesn't give up without one helluva fight. I'm telling you, Miranda, watch that back of yours while you're on vacation.”
Vacation. If Louise only knew what Miranda was really doing—where she was going.
Miranda wasn't usually a woman prone to a case of nerves, but Louise's worries, plus the mention of Ronnie Klug, had gotten to her. Ronnie Klug and his twelve-inch knife.
The fact that she was leaving town for a meeting—no, make that command performance—with her father didn't help ease the knots in her stomach as she made her way to her car. Dutch Holland was used to getting his way, from his ex-wife and children as well as his hundreds of employees. And now, for some unknown reason, he wanted to see his firstborn.
Throwing her briefcase and coat into the trunk, she took one sweeping glance around the parking garage, then peered through the window and into the backseat of her Volvo. No one appeared to be lurking in the corners. No sinister figure in the shadows. Thank God.
Miranda slid behind the wheel and tried to ignore a blistering headache that was beginning to pound at her temples.
Within minutes she edged into traffic crawling steadfastly out of the city. The air-conditioning unit in the car was on the fritz, so she rolled down the window and studied the trunk of a Buick she was following. A gust of breathless summer air raced into the warm interior. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rearview mirror. Not a pretty sight. Her lipstick had faded, her mascara rubbed off, and a network of tiny red lines was visible in her eyes. Her hair, pulled back into a tight knot at the base of her skull, was beginning to come loose. “Great,” she muttered, switching lanes as she yanked her hair free and tossed the thick rubber band onto the seat next to her. “Just great.”
Who was the guy who'd been asking questions about her, and why was he nosing around now, when all hell seemed to be breaking loose? When her father, curse him, had decided to yank on his patriarchal strings again? When her life was falling apart?
“Pull yourself together,” she told herself; she couldn't afford to fall apart. Not now. She'd worked too hard to get where she was, climbed up the ladder in the DA's office one hard-fought rung at a time and suffered her share of emotional as well as physical hardships in the process. One mysterious guy loitering around wasn't going to get to her. She wouldn't, couldn't allow it. She'd spent too many years feeling victimized, spent too much money on shrinks to finally put her past behind her, kept her secrets far too long to lose it all now.
Nor was the summons from dear old Dad—a curt phone message left on her answering machine going to be her undoing. Running the fingers of one hand through her hair, massaging her scalp and letting the wind unwind the tangled strands, she drove steadily west, into the setting sun.
Dutch Holland had ordered her to meet him at the family home by the lake of all places. She had thought that the old lodge had been boarded up for years, hoped that the slipcovers and sheets that had been draped over the furniture would never be removed, prayed that the secrets hidden away in that monstrosity of a cabin would be buried forever.
“Too bad,” she muttered under her breath as she braked for a road construction crew that was packing up for the day. She maneuvered around the orange cones as one of the crewmen tossed a shovel into the back of a tar-spattered truck. A flagger—a woman in a fluorescent orange vest—paused to light a cigarette before stepping into the vehicle.
Miranda squinted against the sun. A bothersome thought bored its way into her mind. Was it possible that the mystery man who had shown up asking questions in her office was somehow connected to the summons from her father? Or was it just a coincidence that he appeared about the same time her estranged family began making demands again?
No way. Miranda Holland had been working for the law too long to believe in coincidence.
Three
“It's now or never.”
So why not never?
Miranda turned off the Volvo's engine and heard it tick as it cooled. Through the bug-spattered windshield, she saw the placid water of the lake and she bit her lip. In her mind's eye she was eighteen, dripping wet, scared to death, and lying through her chattering teeth. “Oh, God,” she whispered, and dropped her head for a second, resting her forehead on the steering wheel. She hadn't been back here since that summer.
“Get a grip.” She couldn't fall apart now. Not after all the years she'd spent making something of herself, proving to her father and the world that she was more than Dutch Holland's daughter.
Grabbing her purse and coat, she climbed out of the car, then walked along the path leading to the wide front porch that skirted the lodge. She rapped sharply on the front door, then didn't wait for a response. She tried the knob and the latch gave way. Suddenly she was in the house where she'd grown up, and dozens of memories tripped through her mind. Innocent memories of a pampered childhood with her two sisters, absent father, and distracted mother. Darker images from her adolescent years when she alone knew that her parents' marriage was disintegrating, that whatever love they'd shared had slipped through their fingers. And finally that dark, fateful night when all their lives had been altered forever.
As she walked through the foyer, she was assailed by the scents of pine and solvent, wax and detergent. Hardwood floors gleamed to a soft patina as lamps, freshly dusted, cast pools of light on the newly waxed oak.
“Dad?” she called, running her fingers along the railing of the stairs that climbed three floors. There had once been a graceful wooden salmon arching upon the final post, but the fish, and all the other creatures that were carved into the railing, had been hacked away years before. Now only the scarred post remained.
“Back here.” Just the sound of his voice caused her throat to constrict a little. For the first eighteen years of her life it had been her mission to please him, to prove to him that she was just as good as any son he might have sired. He had never bothered to hide the fact that he'd wanted boys—strong, strapping sons to someday take over the business—and Miranda had attempted to fill the void caused by the lack of male heirs. Of course, all her attempts had been a futile waste of time.
Fist clenched around the strap of her purse, she marched through the wide front hallway toward the main room in the back of the lodge, a room with a ceiling that soared three stories and boasted a wall of glass that overlooked the smooth waters of the lake.
Her father was seated in his favorite chair, a leather recliner placed strategically near the cold hearth of the fireplace. Dressed in a suit and tie, crisp white shirt, and shoes polished to a blinding gloss, he didn't bother to rise, just cradled his drink as he leaned back and watched her enter. A newspaper lay open on the table next to his chair, and all the furniture, long draped, was uncovered. Even the grand piano on which she'd taken years of lessons was poised in the corner, as if ready for gifted hands to float over the keys and fill this old lodge with music again.
“Miranda.” Dutch's voice was rough and cracked a little. “You look just like—”
“I know, I know.” She forced a smile. “More like Mom every day.”
“She was—still is, I imagine—a beautiful woman.”
“Should I take that as a compliment?” she asked, and wondered what it was he really wanted after all these years, when her contact with him had been sporadic at best.
“Do.”
His eyes were serious, but sparkled just a little as he waved her toward one of the high-backed chairs facing him. “You were always the prompt one. Pour yourself a drink and sit down.”
She wasn't so easily put at ease. “The prompt one?” Tossing her coat over the back of the couch, she asked, “What's this all about?” Crossing her arms under her breasts, hoping to appear cool and professional, not a little lost child of twelve who had overheard the horrid arguments between her parents, she wondered why, when she wasn't intimidated by harsh judges, oily defense attorneys, or hardened criminals, this one man could shake her confidence as no one else ever could. Most of her life Miranda had tried and failed to please her father. Only recently had she quit beating her head against the wall by seeking his approval. Only in the past few years had she finally come to terms with her relationship with him and become her own woman. She didn't really give a damn if he approved of her or not.
But still she'd come running. And she was nervous.
“I need to talk to you girls.”
“Girls? Plural?” She lifted an eyebrow. This was news. Worrisome news.
“Claire and Tessa will be here shortly.”
“Why? What's going on?” A prick of guilt pierced her brain. What if he were dying? Struggling against disease? But as she stared down at the robust man in the oxblood recliner, she dismissed her concerns. His face was tanned, his blue eyes clear as a June morning as they looked at her above half-glasses that sat on the end of his nose. His hair, thick and always coarse, was no longer brown, but peppered with gray that lightened perceptibly at his temples. Aside from a thickening of his waist, he appeared as healthy as ever. And just as untrustworthy.
Twin car engines whined. Tires crunched on old gravel. Doors slammed in unison.
Dutch's smile was tight. “Your sisters.”
He was right. In a clatter of footsteps and a murmur of hushed voices, Miranda's two siblings entered the house and, soon thereafter, the living room. Claire, tall and thin, with reddish-brown hair clipped away from her face, jeans and a cotton sweater, looked anxious, as if she'd lost more weight. Tessa, the youngest and always the most daring, wore a cocky smile. Her tangled blond hair was spiked and way beyond sun-bleached. A long voile dress—dark purple that was sheer enough to show off her legs when she walked in front of the light—billowed around her. Suede boots decorated with beads encased her feet and climbed halfway up her calves. Around her right forearm a band of barbed wire had been permanently tattooed or burned into her skin. A dozen earrings glittered along one ear.
“Randa!” Claire's smile was filled with relief, Tessa's suddenly more guarded.
Hugging her sister close, Claire whispered, “What's up?”
“Beats me,” Miranda mouthed back.
Claire, nervous to the point that she hadn't been able to eat, rubbed the chill from her arms. The last few days had been torture. She wondered about Sean and Samantha—tucked in a tiny motel room in a town even smaller than the one they'd left in Colorado. Worried, she glanced at her watch and hoped to God that whatever Dutch had planned wouldn't take long.
“How are the kids?” Randa asked, as Tessa paced the perimeter of the room.
If I only knew.
“As well as can be expected, considering.” Claire had never been much of a liar. “To tell you the truth, it's been hell. Paul was involved—”
“It'll be all right,” Miranda said. Just like Randa. Always in charge. Always cool. Always soothing troubled waters.
“I hope so.” Claire pushed her hair away from her face. “Sean isn't crazy about moving away from his friends.”
Tessa snorted. “He'll get over it. I did.”
“Did you?” Dutch snapped the recliner up and climbed to his feet. He didn't so much as lift a finger to touch his daughters. Theirs had not been a demonstrative family; the girls hadn't hugged or brushed a kiss across his cheek in more than a decade. Which was just fine with Claire. “Now that you're all here, we may as well get down to business,” he said, motioning toward a portable cart laden with unopened bottles. “The bar is stocked if you're thirsty, and there's some sort of tray in the kitchen—fruit, cheese, smoked salmon, and crackers, that kind of nonsense.”
No one took a step toward the swinging doors that led out of the room.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Tessa announced, eyeing the paneled walls now barren of any decoration. Their mother's artwork, so liberally sprinkled throughout the house while they were growing up, had disappeared. And the heads of wild beasts—cougar, buffalo, antelope, wolf, and bear—so proudly displayed in bygone years, must have migrated upstairs to the attic or been sold. No snarling animal dared gaze through glass eyes from these old walls any longer.
Impatience marred Dutch's expression. “The lodge gives you the creeps?” he growled. “Hell, Tessa, you grew up here.”
“Don't remind me.” She flopped onto the couch, dropped a huge leather purse into her lap, and scrounged around for a pack of cigarettes.
“If you're not going to have a drink or some food, you may as well sit down.” Dutch waved his other daughters into chairs, and Claire reminded herself that she wasn't a girl of ten getting a lecture. She was a full-grown woman, an adult, with a life of her own, in shambles though it might be. “You probably want to know why I asked you all to come here.”
“Not me. I know why.” Tessa shook out a cigarette and lit up. She shot a stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth. “This is some kind of power trip.” Leaning back on the couch, she flung one arm over the soft cushions. “It always is with you.”
Claire inwardly cringed. Why did Tessa make everything a battle? From the day she'd been born, she'd challenged her parents. Didn't she notice the wash of color ride up her father's neck and stain his cheeks, the sharpening of his gaze?
“This time, Tessa, you might be right,” he conceded with a wide, well-practiced grin; the same smile Claire had witnessed as a child whenever he had come home and told his wife about his most recent deal, a scheme that was certain to make him millions, a business venture that would put that bastard Taggert in his place. Dutch took a sip of his drink. “I've been approached to run for governor come the next election.”
The news settled quietly.
No one said a word.
Smoke curled to the ceiling from the cigarette momentarily forgotten in Tessa's hand.
Claire could barely breathe. An election? Complete with staff, reporters, and voters examining every minute of Dutch's life—his children's lives? Prying into any rumor, any bit of gossip? Oh, no, not now . . .
“This has been coming for quite a while. Several people want me to run and are willing to back me. I've only held off because . . . well, frankly, I'm not sure what I'm up against—not my opponent, you understand, but what kind of a toll an election will take on the family, on you girls, on your mother, and on me. But that's not really what's stopping me. It's the scandal that worries me.”
Miranda, perched stiffly in an overstuffed chair asked, “What scandal?”
Claire swallowed hard and focused on her older sister.
Don't do this!
She shook her head slightly, barely moving, just enough to get Miranda's attention and silently beg her not to push the issue. Clearing her throat, Tessa stared off into the distance, as if looking through the sun-glazed windows, but was, Claire suspected, lost in her own memories—her own private hell.
Dutch sighed. “You know what scandal,” he said. “Look, I'm not lily-white myself—got a few skeletons in my own closet, but nothing like the one you girls have been hiding for the last sixteen years.”
Claire's blood turned to ice. So this was it. Her palms began to sweat.
Dutch settled back into his chair and tented his fingers under his chin. “Like it or not, the whole sordid mess is going to come out. Besides, I have personal enemies who will do anything in their power to see that I fail in my run for governor: enemies like Weston Taggert. There's another problem. His name is Kane Moran—you all probably remember him.” He didn't wait for an answer, but Claire's heart already pumping fast, began an irregular cadence fed by fear.
Kane?
What could he have to do with anything? This was getting worse by the minute.
“Anyway, Mr. Moran is kind of a drifter, used to live around here as a kid. His dad was a mean son of a bitch who worked for me a long time ago and had an accident that put him in a wheelchair. The kid scraped by somehow, became a hotshot freelance journalist who's been all over the world, reporting on hot spots. He quit that kind of work last year after he was wounded and nearly killed in Bosnia, I think it was. So he's back.”
“Here?” Claire asked, barely breathing.
“Now he's taken it upon himself to become a—” he waved impatiently. “Well, I'd call him a novelist because sure as I'm standing here he's going to be creating fiction, but he seems to deem our family important enough to write about. His book is gonna be one of those unauthorized exposé types.”
“On us?” Miranda clarified.
“Well, yes, but specifically on the death of Harley Taggert.”
Claire nearly swooned. She gripped the back of the couch for support. Thunder pounded in her ears.

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