Mom pulled away. She wiped her cheeks and nodded. “I’m sorry to burden you with this. You’ve probably got some big business deal going on or something. You’ve been so busy lately.”
Shit. Bruno Panaman. How long had I been here? I glanced at my watch. It was nearly two and I had just over an hour to get to Bruno’s home. And now I probably looked like puffy-faced raccoon. I let out a deep sigh. “I forgot about that. There’s this meeting in Encinitas. I’ve got to get cleaned up—I might have to change tops.”
We both laughed. Mom winced and rubbed my wet shoulder. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve ruined your blouse. I’ll buy you a new one.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure the dry cleaner can take care of it.”
Mom’s eyebrows went up. “You dry clean a linen blouse? Why don’t you just wash it?”
I could kick myself. I knew better than to mention cleaning issues of any sort to the expert. “It keeps it looking crisper.” I took her shoulders. “If I’m going to look at Dad’s computer, I need to get on it.”
Her lower jaw went tight as she nodded. She understood the gentle reprimand—no cleaning talk. We needed to focus.
“I might need his password,” I said.
Mom shook her head from side-to-side and grimaced. She swallowed, “I don’t—”
“It’s okay.” I gave her a reassuring smile and stood. “You want to wait out back?”
Without a word, Mom opened the patio screen door and stepped outside. I went down the hall to Dad’s office. I jiggled the mouse, hoping that the machine hadn’t locked itself. The display came alive and my worst fear confronted me—a password screen.
I stared at the blank field and felt my hopes sink. We were screwed. My opportunity to see if Dad had been investigating my business or starting an affair with another woman or researching ways to escape was blocked by some stupid code known only to my father. And what super-secret little code would he use?
There was nothing under the paperweight. No little secret scrap of paper with a password hidden in the desk drawers. I slumped back into his desk chair. My dad knew better than to write down that type of information and leave it near the computer. He knew better than to use a birthday or a dog’s name or anything else so easily guessed.
Screw it. I had to try. I clicked in the password field, typed “TannerTitle” and hit the Enter key. The system sneered at me with its invalid password message.
I tried it without capitals and got the same result. Dammit, this was ridiculous. I went basic.
“Richard.” Nothing.
“Evelyn.” Same.
I tried my name, pet names, dates, and after ten minutes, threw my hands up in exasperation.
“Shit,” I muttered. “We’re screwed.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Skip
Skip let out a breath that felt stale and dirty. He wished he could start the entire conversation over. He couldn’t. He prided himself on his ability to read people and situations accurately. Body language, eye movements, tone of voice, and changes in skin color or breathing patterns were all clues he employed to get at the truth when the other person’s words might not tell the full story. There was only one thing he could do.
“Herman, I apologize for jumping to conclusions,” he said.
Nordoff’s eyes defocused as he stared off into space for a few seconds. He waved away the apology. “You helped me to see something I didn’t before.”
Nordoff’s politeness only made things worse. Herman Nordoff wasn’t an abuser. And Paul hadn’t seen an argument and run. Paul was just a little boy with big problems and parents who hadn’t gotten him the help he needed. He never should have misread this domestic situation.
This family needed help from a professional, but first someone had to find Paul. Skip made his decision. “I’ll help you find Paul. Once he’s back, you’ve got to get him in for counseling. Kids just don’t try to strangle their parents.”
Mariane nodded.
Herman Nordoff’s brow wrinkled. “You said it was a mugger.”
“I’m sorry! I thought I was protecting Paul. I didn’t want him to have to go through that, too.”
Skip felt himself narrowing his gaze on Mariane. “Clinical depression?”
She turned her glance aside. And Skip did a quick assessment. Her skin color, the shallow breathing, the listlessness—he pressed further. “Did you go through treatment?”
She cradled the cast in her left arm. “I’m on medication. Forever. I never dreamt Paul would have to go through that.”
Skip’s mind raced as he tried to process this new part of the equation. He shot a glance at Wally. The lawyer had known someone was lying, just not who. Skip had assumed that because Nordoff was gruff and strong, he was the problem. But Mariane’s appearance—her complexion, her demeanor—and the fact that she’d lied to her husband had thrown everyone off the trail.
He had questions about Mariane’s condition. And about Paul’s behavior. But one question in particular bothered him most. “Herman, why don’t you want the police involved?”
Herman glanced at his wife, who mouthed the words, “Tell him.”
Nordoff stared at the deck flooring as he spoke. “When Mariane told me she’d been mugged, I insisted that we file a police report. The officer who took the report appeared to think Mariane was making the whole thing up and that rankled me.” He winced, then glanced at Skip. “I laid into him. He practically accused me of having broken her arm.”
The cop had made the same assumption he had. Nordoff had a lot of anger burning inside. The easiest conclusion was also the most obvious. “So things got out of hand.”
Nordoff glanced down. “I owe him an apology.”
Skip turned his attention to Mariane. “Were you also trying to protect Paul from some sort of criminal prosecution?”
She pressed her hand to her lips. Tears brimmed again. “Yes.” The word came out in a hoarse whisper.
“He needs counseling,” said Skip. “Not jail. I need to see his room.”
Skip spent over an hour scouring Paul’s bedroom while Herman Nordoff paced out on the deck and his wife fretted in the living room. Periodically, Skip heard their footsteps from the stairwell. Moments later, they’d appear in the hallway and remind him of where they each waited. Skip would acknowledge their presence with a wave of his hand, but otherwise ignore them until they left. At the end of his search, he’d put together an impossibly short list of helpful information—eleven years old, troubled by something deep, he liked sports, he played soccer after school, and his phone had text messages from two friends who sent back sympathetic replies indicating that they, too, had parent issues.
Unfortunately, neither Mariane nor Herman knew these friends or how to find them. Skip considered sending a text message asking for help. But what good would that do? The friends would warn Paul that his parents were searching for him. Parents weren’t included in the trust network, so that option was out. There had to be another way.
Skip stared at Paul’s calendar. Soccer practices were at three. He went to Paul’s closet. “Mariane!” he bellowed. He began rummaging through the closet again, this time realizing that he wasn’t looking for what was here, but what was not.
Mariane appeared at the door. “Did you find something?”
“What does Paul wear for soccer?”
“A jersey, shorts, shin guards. Why?”
“Where does he keep them?”
Her face flushed. She made an expansive gesture with her left arm. “Where do eleven-year-old boys keep anything, Mr. Cosgrove? Wherever it lands. If it wasn’t for mothers, you wouldn’t be able to stand, let alone sit, in a child’s room.”
Didn’t she realize how much more he might have learned if the room had been in its normal state? “Where’s his soccer stuff?”
Her face went blank. Then, she glanced around and gazed at Skip. “I was so upset when I came in here. I don’t know. I just started putting things away. I don’t
remember seeing it. Why? Is that important?”
“Look at his calendar. See how he’s circled each practice and game. Soccer is important to him. Top of his list, I’d say, because I don’t know many kids who mark events on calendars. He’s tracking his attendance. Last week’s game isn’t circled. Did he go last week?”
She shook her head and tears brimmed in her eyes again. A few seconds later, she said, “Oh, God. I kept him home. He’d been acting out and I kept him here as punishment. He was so upset, but I never thought he’d just vanish.”
Skip pointed at the bruise on her neck. “That’s when that happened?”
She nodded.
“Mariane, your son is eleven. He’s focused on the here and now. If he missed a game and was upset about it, he wouldn’t want to miss another. That’s probably his therapy, his way to cope. He just might be going to soccer practice this afternoon.”
Her hands fluttered in the air. “I can’t believe he’d run away just so he could go to a stupid soccer practice. It’s just a game.”
Skip pointed to a poster on the wall for the LA Galaxy. He pulled a piece of paper from the printer. “Look at this, it’s information about a soccer camp in LA. Your son is crazy about that ‘stupid game.’ If you want to get through to him, learn about soccer.”
Mariane plopped down onto the bed and hunched over the paper Skip handed her. Her lower lip quivered as she read. When she’d finished, she held the paper to her chest. “Mr. Cosgrove, if you get him back, I’ll see that he gets into this camp.”
“The first step is to find him. He should be there this afternoon. I’ll talk to the school and the police and let them know what’s going on. And, by the way, I’m going to give you the website address for a GPS locating service. If he runs away again, you’ll be able to find him in seconds. If he has his phone with him, that is.”
Mariane stared at the floor as if lost in thought.
Skip grimaced. “It won’t work if he doesn’t have it with him.”
“Herman and I should go with you.”
“You need to keep some distance. If he sees you, he might run. He doesn’t know me. With the right introduction from the coach, I can get close enough to talk him down. We’re only a few minutes from the field. I’ll call you when I want you to come get him.”
By 2:00 p.m., Skip had been to the Carlsbad Police and spoken to the sergeant in Family Services, explained Paul’s problems, advised her that Paul had run away, and made arrangements for a quick response should something go wrong at the soccer field. He’d also been to the school and spoken to the principal and the soccer coach. The coach had been reluctant, but under pressure from the principal and Skip, had agreed to perform the introductions.
Later, when Paul walked onto the field, the coach got an uneasy look on his face. Skip kept his tone level with the coach. “What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know. This doesn’t feel right. I don’t want to mess up the practice. You know what I mean?”
“Afterwards. We can do it after the practice. Will that work?”
The coach shifted position. “Yeah. That’ll work.”
“You still seem hesitant.”
“It’ll be fine.”
Skip walked away wondering what was bothering the coach. What could possibly be the problem with getting Paul back home?
A short while later, the practice was in full swing and Skip stood on the sidelines with the parents of other kids. At first, most of the observers were silent, with the exception of Skip, who cheered the kids on. Initially, the players, including Paul, gave him a strange look when he let out a cheer, as though wondering who this crazy guy was who rooted for everyone on the team. But soon, as more parents got in the mood, the players responded to the growing cheering section.
The practice was almost over when Skip noticed a blue Ford Focus zip into the parking lot and squeeze into a spot at the far end. The driver, a man wearing a red T-shirt and jeans, got out of his car and put the strap from his camera around his neck. The man rushed toward the field. Skip figured the guy for a parent who had lots of money to spend on photography equipment, but little time for his kid’s practice.
The man trotted to where the coach stood, said a few words, and began snapping pictures. Skip turned his attention back to the game. Paul had received a pass from one of his teammates. He dribbled the ball forward. An opposing player tried to block his path. Paul feinted left, but went right. He slipped past the player, made his kick and scored. Skip let out a whoop along with several of the parents. He suppressed a laugh as Paul’s teammates gathered around and congratulated him with their eleven-year-old versions of chest and fist bumps.
The coach blew his whistle and Skip realized that practice was over. It was time to go to work. The self-doubts kicked in. Would he be able to talk a scared little boy into going back home willingly?
“Soon enough,” he said to himself. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
CHAPTER NINE
Roxy
Late afternoon shadows deepened as the time for my appointment with Bruno Panaman neared. With the gray of morning long gone, the sky had turned what seemed like a bright cerulean blue, punctuated only by an occasional smudge of fog. In reality, the moisture-laden air dulled the blue and the smudgy punctuation marks were more prominent than I cared to admit. It was a typical Southern California hazy imitation of clean air with visibility limited to a few miles.
I twisted my driver’s mirror to check my face and winced. Little drops of oil beaded up on my nose. A man could ignore something like that on his nose, but not a woman making a sales pitch. I wasn’t about to let Bruno Panaman compare my nose to an oil spill.
I pulled out a little packet of Palladio Rice Paper from my purse, tore off a piece, and dabbed with the matte side, then with the powdered side. I stuffed the used piece into a little trash bag and the rest of the packet back into my purse, checked my teeth for any leftover fish-taco particles, fluffed up my hair, then got out of the car. The air was almost still, the temperature hovered in the mid seventies, which gave the air outside the car a refreshing feel. Everything was great—except, of course, for the fact that my dad had gone on a bender and I was wearing goddamn panty hose. I’d thrown on a pair at Mom and Dad’s as a precaution. With Sonny, I hadn’t needed to worry about bare legs. He was of the generation that accepted the look in the business world. But Bruno was one generation back and probably had definite ideas about women’s business attire. And whether they should even be in business. Since I wanted a quarter of a million of his money, it would be best to play it safe and wear the damn nylons.
The Panaman residence hogged the premier spot on a hilltop with a panoramic view of the Pacific. The neighborhood was not much different than my parents’ place in many ways. The homes had been built back in the 70s and 80s. From the outside, they appeared modest, probably three or four bedrooms. The yards, well-manicured palettes of tropical foliage, included palms of various varieties, hibiscus, camellias, and ornamentals with leaves nearly the size of the hood on my car.
The house was painted an off-white with blue and gray trim and accents. Stone veneer covered the lower half of the walls. The stone also formed a walkway that curved around and hugged one side of the house. The front door was a highly polished dark wood, which I guessed was mahogany or some variety of rosewood.
I once dated a landscaper. What time he didn’t spend trying to turn me into an arborist or some other plant scientist-guru, he spent ranting about politics. The only thing I got out of that short relationship was a hundred-dollar dinner bill and a firm resolve to never date another loser who wouldn’t look me in the eye.
After I skipped, there’d be no expensive dinners, no more thousand-dollar cocktail dresses, and no falling for someone else’s get-rich-quick schemes.
My finger was just inches from the bell when the door opened. I jumped. “Sonny! You surprised me.”
He did his usual quick x-ray scan of my body. His eyes widened whe
n he got to the legs. “You look sensational.”
Given that my skirt was only a couple of inches above the knee, I considered that quite a compliment. Stella hadn’t gotten a ‘sensational’ rating this morning, but she had gotten the big eyes. “Thanks. Where’s your dad?”
He motioned behind him with his head.
It suddenly occurred to me that Sonny might not have set up an appointment with his dad at all. This could all be a ruse to get me inside the family lair. I quickly dismissed the concern. I had a black belt in tongue-lashing and a red in karate. If I couldn’t talk Sonny down with words, I could always put him in the hospital for a month with injuries he’d remember for a long time. “Fabulous! Let’s go see him.”
Sonny closed the door behind me. It didn’t escape my attention that he’d tossed on an extra splash of cologne. He smelled more like a Macy’s perfume-testing refugee than a seducer of women. He paused momentarily as he slipped past. If he was expecting me to melt at his feet and beg him to take me to bed, he was sorely mistaken. The overpowering scent might put me in bed, but it would be alone with a couple of painkillers for the headache, not begging for his undivided attention. His smile fell when I shifted my briefcase so that I held it between us with both hands.
To his credit, Sonny seemed to recognize the signal. “He’s out back. Dad likes to watch the ocean in the afternoon.”
How nice for your dad, I thought, mine’s out drinking away his sorrows. The house furnishings were generally older generation—lots of leather, dark colors, massive furniture. The patio, however, was a knockout, complete with a redwood arbor covered by a mountain of San Diego Red bougainvillea. Three clusters of Queen Palms surrounded a waterfall that stood nearly as tall as me. Koi swam in circles in the pool at the base of the palms. One did a quick flip out of the water. Others did the fish equivalent of someone pacing as they waited for dinner.
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