You Don't Know Me (14 page)

Fat chance,
Dinah thought grimly, knowing her sister far too well.

But damn it all, Denise
had
to call. Dinah couldn’t keep up this charade forever.

The low rumble of an arriving vehicle brought her up short. She was alone. John Callahan had swept in and swept out—his brief R & R less than twenty-four hours long. Curiously, she’d been strangely lonely since his departure; she hadn’t realized how isolated she’d been until she’d had contact with another human being—no matter how loathsome that human being might be.

Maybe it was Federal Express or something, she decided, checking the clock. Noon. In the middle of the week. Not likely that His Highness would show up a second time unannounced, especially during the workweek.

The phone purred on the desk. Dinah snatched up the landline, distracted by the sound of the car’s engine. “Yes?” she demanded, hoping Denise had finally gotten the message.

“Could I speak to Denise Scott?” a male voice asked.

Dinah hesitated. Sometimes she pretended she was Denise, other times she said she was house-sitting. This time she didn’t know which way to jump. “Who’s calling, please?”

“Connor Jackley. I’m looking for Ms. Scott because I have some information from Wagon Wheel, Oregon.”

Dinah broke into a cold sweat so fast, it was as if someone had sprayed her with water. “She’s not here. She’s away for a while.”

“Do you know if she’s at the home of Carolyn Lenton in Houston, Texas?”

“Who?” Dinah asked.

“Do you work for Ms. Scott-Callahan?”

“I—yes. She’s unavailable. Who are you again?” she demanded, growing anxious. “What do you want? What kind of information?”

A cool breeze feathered against her arms. Dinah looked up to find John Callahan standing in the hallway, staring at her, taking in her jeans, her ponytail, her bare face, the fact that she was sitting at his computer . . .

The man at the end of the line was saying something else. Dinah hung up the phone with nerveless fingers.

Callahan strode slowly toward her. Dinah clicked a finger on the computer mouse, closing her file, blanking the screen. Her heart revved into overdrive. The gig was up. Denise would never work on the computer. Never.

“What are you up to?” he asked in his slow-talking, sexy voice, his gaze flicking to the monitor.

“It’s none of your business.”

“You’re
writing
something?”

“Maybe.”

“What?”

“That’s my affair.”

He backed off. “Well, you’re good at having affairs so go right ahead and have another.”

A reprieve. Dinah’s confidence began to return.

“The phone call was for you?” he asked.

“Nobody I wanted to talk to.”

“Sounded a lot like a blackmailer to me. Got anything to be blackmailed about? Apart from the usual, that is?”

“Go to hell.”

“You’re not Denise, are you?” he said in a quiet voice.

Dinah’s heart leapt to her throat, but she regarded him steadily.

“This is some strange new method acting that you bring right into your own life. What are you priming for? Nobody in this town’ll hire you again. Nobody with any sense, anyway.”

Dinah’s gaze narrowed. “Did you come back just to insult me?”

“This little game is kind of interesting. I’ve got to hand it to you. I thought the thrill was gone, but you’ve got my attention.” His gaze hovered somewhere near her mouth.

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m going to be here until Monday. I’ve got some things to do at home. Maybe I’ll even get some time on my computer, if I set up an appointment with you.”

“Don’t bet on it,” she muttered.

“And who’s driving the Corolla in the garage?”

“I am,” she stated flatly. “I’m changing my style.”

“Bullshit.”

Dinah stared at the dark screen, wishing he would go away so she could breathe easier. But his hip was propped against the desk, his scent wafting toward her in waves. His tanned forearm was just inches from the keyboard.

“I’d wager five thousand dollars you would never even ride in a car like that. Whose is it? Don’t lie, or I’ll toss you out again and this time you’ll stay out. I guarantee it.”

“It’s mine, you arrogant bastard. Now get the hell out of here and leave me alone. I’m busy.”

Their gazes clashed. Callahan looked ready to yank her out of the chair and do as he’d threatened. Dinah curled her fingers around the chair’s cushion, childishly ready to hang on for dear life if he came one step closer.

“Why are you sleeping in the spare room?” he asked.

“Because I like it better.”

“Sick of the Santa Fe style?”

“Among other things.” Goose bumps rose on her arms.
Who was that man on the phone? What information from Wagon Wheel?

“Show me what you’re writing,” he said.

Dinah’s pulse nearly shattered her eardrums. Then inspiration struck, “Sure, if you set up an audition for me.”

“I knew it,” he burst out savagely, jerking away from her.

“No audition, no view of my writing.”

His eyes bore down on her, twin beams of bright blue fury. Dinah was momentarily pleased that she’d turned the tables on him, but that pleasure was short-lived as she saw him slowly lift one hand. She flinched as it came near her face, but all he did was graze his knuckles down the curve of her cheekbone, his intense stare trapping hers.

Then he turned on his heel and strode away, his footsteps echoing in the hallway.

Dinah collapsed against the desk, damn near completely spent.

I’ve got to get out of here,
she warned herself desperately.
Before it’s too late.

 

The flight to Houston took three hours from Los Angeles. As Connor pulled his bag from the plane’s overhead compartment, he reminded himself that he was wasting time. Carolyn Lenton’s address was a long shot. One Derek Sather had dimly remembered only after Connor had used near bullying tactics.

Derek Sather was a tired story. Quick track to stardom. Hot new actor-director. Quick fall into the fast life of drugs and sex.

His problems were the kind that ran rampant in Hollywood. Paranoid with low self-esteem. Concerned with appearances rather than substance. Never good enough to really make it. Hung up on all the trappings of stardom without being a real star. A regular walking time bomb of anxieties and insecurities—and a horrible snob to boot.

While he was looking down his nose at Connor, he was also trying to impress him. It killed Connor how often this happened. Were they naturally this way, and somehow they came to Hollywood en masse, as if turning toward Mecca? Or did the Hollywood community subvert all other characteristics and leave only this jellied blob of neuroses, all packaged in the best possible wrapping, of course?

Because Derek Sather was a beautiful man. Even Connor, who’d seen a lot of beautiful people, recognized the man’s attributes: thick black hair, green eyes, a small compact body indicative of serious physical training. He probably looked great on screen. But backbone? He had none.

“I’m not Denise Scott’s keeper,” he told Connor loftily. “And I’d appreciate your respect of my privacy in the future. I’m tired of the phone calls and the harassment.”

Connor almost smiled. He’d considered calling John Callahan first, but in the end had decided to follow a more circuitous route to Denise. She was no longer living with her husband so his best bet was Derek Sather, whom
everyone
knew had been the reason Denise’s marriage had broken up—as his buddies at the force had gleefully pointed out to Connor, apparently the last to know.

So Connor had left a few messages on Sather’s answering machine, asking about Denise. Sather hadn’t returned one call. Connor had toyed again with the idea of confronting John Callahan, but some sixth sense had warned him to wait. Start with Sather, Denise’s last known ex, and work backward. Except Sather had been worse than unresponsive, so Connor had decided to show up at the man’s home, the address of which was common knowledge.

“If you’d called me back,” Connor had pointed out to the scowling, young actor, “I wouldn’t have made this trip. I have some information for Ms. Scott.”

“Yeah, you and the rest of the world,” he sneered.

“Do you know where she is?”

“You can go fuck yourself, man.”

So Connor had simply shouldered open the door and pushed Derek Sather up against a wall. Hollywood’s hot, young actor/director had whined and flailed and threatened legal action like a true worm, but Connor had held fast and waited for him to crumple.

And crumple he did. Derek might be a total loser, but he wasn’t completely stupid. Connor wasn’t going to give up, no matter what he did. But Derek still gave one last stab of bravado.

“You’re gonna be in jail, asshole! I’m gonna put you there!”

“You might succeed,” Connor said.

Sather sputtered and seethed, but he seemed to understand that might boomerang on him, so he spat out, “Fuck you!” and glared in fury.

Connor carefully loosened his hold on the man and glanced around the room. The living room’s faux marble coffee table was littered with empty bottles of liquor and drug paraphernalia. A girl of not more than sixteen lay on the couch wearing only a pair of panties.

Connor turned his gaze to Derek who’d flushed red with indignation.

“She’s my daughter,” he burst out. “It’s the truth! I can prove it.”

As if that made it okay. “She all right?” Connor asked.

The girl lifted her head and said, “I’m eighteen and I can speak for myself, asshole,” then turned over on her side.

“Give me Denise’s address,” Connor said to Sather coldly, and so the information concerning Carolyn Lenton had been imparted.

Further investigation revealed that Sather’s daughter
was
eighteen and Carolyn Lenton was nobody’s friend. She had too much money and too little concern for anybody or anything other than her own unhealthy pursuits. She seemed to liken herself to some kind of psychological guru to the rich and famous who sought out neurotic Hollywood types—of which there was an abundance of in this land of sun and fun—and dragged them off to Houston for God knew what kind of therapy.

Before proceeding to Houston, however, Connor had called John Callahan at work and at home. He didn’t have the man’s cell number and his attempts to reach him were unsuccessful. The woman at the Callahan home had been paranoid and clearly lost when he’d mentioned Carolyn Lenton’s name. The paranoia was probably the common Hollywood malady, but she still didn’t seem to know who Carolyn Lenton was.

So...

So he’d decided to take the trip to Houston. His reasons were mixed. If word got out that he was seeking Denise Scott over an unsolved murder, it would be a media circus in the making. He wanted to avoid the press. The subtle, roundabout route was bound to be more effective.

And besides all that, he felt certain he was on the right track, even though his rational mind told him he might be on a wild-goose chase. But his inner sense urged him to keep going this direction, so he was following his instincts.

Once he connected with Denise, she would be the key to finding Dinah and Hayley.

From the airport he rented a car and drove without incident straight to Carolyn Lenton’s home in River Oaks. This was a staid, well-established corner of the city. Old money. Conservative tastes. Not exactly a place you’d find the highflying Hollywood types.

But Carolyn Lenton was from River Oaks, according to the information his buddies on the force had dug up for him. A throwback. A changeling. A pain in the goddamn ass for her hoity-toity parents who’d died of heart failure—both of them—within months of each other after Carolyn’s first minor scandal with an older, local, long-married politician when she was barely out of her teens.

The result? A ton of money left in her greedy hands. A ton of free time to indulge whatever hedonistic pleasure appealed to her. And now, her own little bed and breakfast, drug haven for those so inclined.

At least that was the rumor.

Luckily for Carolyn, her guests were well behaved. At least none of the neighbors had complained or even seemed aware that in the three-story home with its New Orleans–style wrought-iron filigreed balconies and shuttered windows, a whole lotta shakin’ was going on.

Connor pulled his rented compact to a slow stop across the street from Carolyn’s home. The only evidence that the house was more than it seemed was the proliferation of automobiles parked along the drive, which curved behind the house to a garage in the back.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon and beastly hot. Even with the air-conditioning, he could feel the dampness of his skin. Glancing in the mirror, he saw a taut line of disapproval already shaping his mouth. With an effort, he changed his expression. He’d seen a lot. Too much. Most often he could keep his face a careful mask, but the pure selfishness and waste of this situation annoyed him. There were real problems in the world and the Carolyn Lentons didn’t give a rat’s ass.

Striding up the mosaic-tiled walkway, Connor noticed how ultragreen the lawn was compared to the neighbors’. Lenton clearly wasn’t into water conservation, either. If she was anything like he suspected, the word to describe her was
excess
.

He chose the door knocker rather than the bell, slamming it hard several times.

Nothing.

Birds wheeled and danced overhead, chirping sharply. Once upon a time he would have stopped to watch.

Growing up in rural Oregon had made him appreciate simple pleasures. But years of police work had dulled his senses. It felt like there just wasn’t time.

It took three more bouts of incessant pounding before a voice came over the intercom.

“Who is it?” a male voice demanded with great irritation.

“Connor Jackley. Is Ms. Lenton in?”

“Who?”

“Connor Jackley,” he repeated, unruffled.

“What do you want?”

“I would like to talk to the owner of this house.”

A brief spurt of profanity followed. Minutes passed. Connor realized his missive had not been given to the lady of the house. Wondering if Carolyn would call the police on him, he pressed his finger to the bell and let the chimes ring over and over again until even Connor was nearly driven crazy with the noise.

The door suddenly flew open. A woman with red hair and an ugly, furious look on her face screamed, “Get off my property! I’ve called the police!”

“Are you Carolyn Lenton?”

Two men flanked her like bookends. Neither looked big enough to do damage. In fact, they were practically trembling at the knees. Clearly, they hadn’t expected to be called into service to protect their hostess.

Carolyn wore a silk wrap in peacock blue loosely tossed over a bikini. “I’ll set my pit bull on you if you don’t leave right now!”

“Ms. Lenton, I’m trying to locate Denise Scott. I have some information from her hometown.”

She was in the process of slamming the door, so immersed in her self-importance and fury, it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d told her he’d brought her a ten-million-dollar check from Publishers Clearing House. But something stopped her. Whether his message finally sank in, or if it was something else, Connor wasn’t initially sure. But instead of following through, she raked him with elevator eyes, giving him the once-over from top to bottom and back again.

A change came over her expression. She waved the bookends away impatiently and pushed the door open with one finger, a sultry invitation.

Inwardly, he sighed. His own looks carried some kind of magnetism for certain types of women. An ex-lover had once tried to explain, “It’s that strong, silent thing you’ve got going. That minimalistic way you talk. It drives us wild. You look like you need someone to understand you. You’re hard, but good, y’know what I mean? It’s goddamn sexy.”

Theirs had been a good relationship for a while. He’d enjoyed her humor, her way of teasing. But he couldn’t commit in the way she’d wanted, so the whole thing had fizzled out. He’d been totally involved in his work and she’d wanted a quiet, down-home lifestyle. Ironically, soon after they split, he quit the force and became a private investigator.

Some things just weren’t meant to be.

Carolyn steepled her fingers beneath her chin, assessing him as he walked inside. “So what gives?” she asked. “Who are you really?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“Oh, my. What’s Denise done?”

“Is she here?”

“Well, now, that’s a good question, Mr . . . ?”

“Jackley.”

“Do you have a first name?”

“Connor.”

“Mmm . . .” Carolyn led the way through a solarium to the pool outside. Several people lay in lounge chairs, bronzed statues ignorant of anything but the heat of the sun on their skin. Did no one entertain thoughts of melanoma?

Connor stayed beneath a slatted trellis where a scraggly vine sought to stay fresh beneath the beating rays. Carolyn sat in the sun on the opposite side of a glass-topped table and motioned him to sit down.

“How’d you know Denise was here?”

“It wasn’t too hard to find out.”

“You talk to her ex-husband?”

“No.”

“That’s who you should talk to. She still loves him.”

Connor let that sink in. “I’d like to talk to
her
.”

“Well, that’d be great, but she left. Just a few nights ago, as a matter of fact. Back to Los Angeles.” Carolyn twisted around and yelled to all and sundry, “Hey, get me a Perrier, and bring something stronger for Mr. Jackley.”

Nobody moved. The somnolent inactivity seemed almost surreal. Carolyn tried again, then muttered an obscenity beneath her breath and went to get the drinks herself. Connor stared into the azure depths of the pool, watching the play of light on water.

She returned with a black enamel tray and two drinks, sparkling water for her and a mug of ale for him, condensation dripping down the mug’s frosted sides. She’d managed to lose the silk robe en route and now settled herself on the lounge, one knee pulled up to show off her shapely thigh and calf.

“Would you rather have something else?” she asked, a hint of suggestion in her tone.

“No, thanks.”

“All right, Connor. What can I tell you about Denise Scott?”

Connor lifted the mug. Its chill was heaven against the afternoon heat. He swallowed heartily and set the mug back down. Watching him, Carolyn Lenton pulled an ice cube from her glass, shook off the excess water, then pressed it to her chest, smearing the small frozen block over her tanned flesh.

Plop!
She dropped the cube into his mug of ale. A little suntan oil with his beverage.

“What do you want to hear?” she asked in a husky purr.

“Everything.”

“Every sordid detail? Every indiscretion and less than legal activity?” She leaned forward, her breasts straining against the triangular scraps of her bikini top.

Connor sized her up. He couldn’t have stopped her now if he’d paid her. “Don’t leave out a thing.”

 

 

Three hours later he was on his way back to Houston International Airport without much further information. Carolyn was certainly full of gossip and innuendo, but all he really learned of value was that Denise had left for L.A. Carolyn didn’t know anything about any sisters.