by MJ Rodgers
He could feel her smile and turned to see her eyes dancing suddenly with that ready humor that infused them with golden lights.
“I’m beginning to appreciate that in you, Adam.”
“Appreciate what?” he asked, careful to maintain his nonchalant tone despite his rising curiosity.
“That air of unequivocal confidence you exude. It can’t be acquired. It’s too perfect. You must have been genetically encoded with it while still a sperm.”
Adam returned his attention to the road once again, fighting a smile. It occurred to him that he had to fight a lot of smiles since he’d met this woman. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad sign.
“So what have you learned about the D’Amicos of Tacoma?” Whitney asked.
“Beatrice D’Amico is Danford D’Amico’s mother and apparently a homemaker. Danford is an illustrator at his uncle’s store, a place called Kirkbin’s Road Kill.”
“Not exactly an enticing name for a firm.”
“My investigator says it’s a speciality store with posters and clothes geared to adolescents. Apparently they find the name attractive. The company is small, but it’s been growing steadily, particularly over the last five years.”
“The investigation firm you use is run by your sister, isn’t it?”
“Yes. A.J. is helping out on this case.”
“So her name is A.J. What do the initials stand for?”
“Courage.”
“Either your spelling is atrocious or you’re being deliberately obtuse.”
“As you are such an astute observer of human behavior, Ms. West, I’m certain you can decipher which one.”
“You’re being obtuse.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know.”
She smiled. This polished, stylish man definitely had an engaging way about him.
“I assume you called the D’Amicos to make an appointment?” Whitney asked.
“My secretary was unable to reach Beatrice or Danford directly. A Mrs. Kirkbin advised my secretary that Beatrice is going to be at a doctor’s appointment all morning and Danford at his uncle’s store.”
“So we’re going to see him there. How old is he?”
“Danford Thomas D’Amico is twenty.”
“That means he would have only been thirteen when Patrice died seven years ago. Has A.J. been able to find a link between Patrice and Beatrice or Danford?”
“No. But she has checked on the birth certificate Patrice left with her will. It’s a forgery.”
Whitney’s eyes darted to his face in surprise. “You’re not serious. The birth certificate that identified her as Patrice Dulcinea Feldon is a phony?”
“Yes.”
“But she said that was her name,” Whitney protested.
“She also told me her name was Patrice Anne Waring when we met.”
“But in her will she said she had only gone by Waring and that Feldon was her real name. This is crazy. How many names did she have?”
“That’s an interesting question,” Adam said. “Let’s see which one Danford D’Amico recognizes.”
One frazzled, thirtyish salesclerk was trying to handle three young customers at Kirkbin’s Road Kill when Adam and Whitney walked into the small, crowded shop filled with what looked more like battle armor than clothing. Adam did not approach the clerk immediately, but gave her time to attend to her customers’ various demands for spiked helmets and swords.
Adam took the time to study the posters on the walls. Most of them combined the features of the human male with formidable beasts. The resulting hideous mythical beings had dripping fangs and were attired in full battle armor over the parts that remained identifiably human.
“These look like scenes out of bad nightmares,” Whitney said as she moved up beside him, lightly brushing his suit-coat sleeve and treating him to a brief whiff of her warm, sweet scent.
“Can I help you?” a voice asked from behind him.
Adam turned to see the salesclerk escorting her last young customer out of the door with arms full of the accoutrements for conducting war and mayhem. The clerk was smiling, probably pleased to talk to an adult for a change.
“We’re looking for Danford D’Amico,” he said.
Her face went blank. “Danford D’Amico?” she repeated. “Oh, you mean Danny,” she said as recognition dawned. “He’s in there, where he always is.”
She pointed to a door at the back of the small shop. It was nearly hidden behind a barrel filled with shields and swords.
Adam and Whitney skirted the barrel to stand before the closed door. Adam knocked on it. There was no answer.
“Just go on in,” the salesclerk called. “He’ll never hear you.”
Adam opened the door and entered behind Whitney. The room was small, square, windowless, dark. It was crowded with freestanding, bar-on-wheels wardrobes filled with T-shirts. In the far corner, bent over an artist’s easel beneath a single bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling, was a young man.
He had his back to them. As they drew near, Adam could see him sketching some hideous part-man, part-dragon figure. Similar figures had been imprinted on several T-shirts hanging off nails hammered into the bare wall behind him. He didn’t look up from his work. He didn’t even seem to be aware of their presence.
“Danford D’Amico?” Adam asked.
Adam’s voice so startled the young man that he spun around, lost his balance and fell off his stool. Adam immediately stepped forward to offer his hand.
“Let me help you.”
Danny looked a little uncertainly at him. Adam got the impression that Danny wasn’t used to being offered a helping hand.
“Sorry, I…sorry.”
What Danny was sorry for wasn’t clear to Adam. It didn’t seem all that clear to Danny, either. If Adam had to guess, he’d say the apology was an automatic reflex. Danny released Adam’s hand the moment he was on his feet.
“Are you all right?” Adam asked.
“Yeah, fine. No problem.”
Danford Thomas D’Amico was short, pale, gawky and way too thin. He had curly dark brown hair, ill-fitting glasses that were wearing a groove into his fine Roman nose and large brown eyes that had a bruised look to them. He seemed a lot younger than his twenty years, although Adam believed that impression might stem from his obvious lack of confidence.
“You are Danny Thomas D’Amico?” Whitney asked, her voice warm and sunny as she flashed the young man a smile.
Danny looked at her and blinked. “Y-yes.”
“I’m Whitney West and this is Adam Justice, Danny. Your aunt told Mr. Justice that you’d be here. If you have a few minutes, we’d like to talk with you.”
“Uh, sure, I, uh, I’m sorry but I don’t have any chairs back here. You can sit on my stool.”
Adam watched Whitney take the young man’s stool and smile at him as though she had been given a place of great honor. She seemed to have a knack for knowing that attention from an attractive older woman went a long way toward giving a young man more confidence and putting him at his ease.
And from everything he had seen so far, Adam could tell Danny D’Amico was definitely a young man who needed someone to put him at his ease.
“Mr. D’Amico,” Adam began, “Ms. West and I are attorneys. We’ve come to see you about a confidential legal matter.”
Danny’s face paled.
“There’s nothing to be concerned about,” Adam said evenly, recognizing his words had alarmed Danny. “Do you remember Patrice Feldon?”
“Who?” Danny asked.
“Patrice Feldon.”
Danny looked at Adam blankly. “Sorry, don’t know her.”
“Does any other family member share your name, Danny?” Whitney asked.
“Nope.”
“What is your father’s name?” Adam asked.
“His name was Thomas Desmoni D’Amico.”
“Was? He’s dead?” Whitney
asked.
“Yeah,” Danny said. “He died when I was a baby.”
“I’m sorry,” Whitney said. Adam noticed she didn’t just say the words. She sounded as though she meant them.
“Do you have a grandfather or uncle who shares your name?” she asked.
“My grandfather died before I was born, and my dad was an only child. I’m the only D’Amico left. On my mom’s side they’re all Kirkbins.”
“Are you certain that the name Patrice Feldon does not sound even vaguely familiar to you?”
“Yep.”
“Where were you seven years ago, Mr. D’Amico?”
Danny looked at Adam as though he had to be kidding. When Adam maintained his sober expression, Danny shrugged. “Right here. I’ve been working for my uncle since I was thirteen.”
“In this small, dark room?” Whitney asked, her tone and facial expression displaying obvious dismay at the thought.
Danny shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
“How did you get started?” Whitney asked.
“My uncle wanted me to sketch out some of the designs the kids at school were asking me to paint onto their leather jackets. He had my designs imprinted on T-shirts and sold them. When I got out of high school, he hired me to design the posters and T-shirts and stuff at the store.”
Whitney squinted at the emerging nightmare on the easel. “Your attention to detail is remarkable,” she said after a moment.
“But the subject matter sucks, right?” Danny said, surprising Adam.
“It’s just not my taste,” Whitney admitted.
“Yeah, it’s kids who like this sort of thing,” Danny said, trying to sound superior. “I did once, too, before I outgrew it. I’ve been tired of doing this stuff for a long time now. Only thing is, they sell pretty good so my uncle tells me I got to keep doing them.”
“What would you like to draw?” Whitney asked.
Danny shrugged. “Different things.”
“May I see some of those different things?”
Danny’s eyes darted uncertainly to Whitney’s face. Adam imagined he was trying to determine if it were genuine interest in her eyes. When he seemed reassured, he turned toward Adam.
“I would like to see, too,” Adam said.
Danny hesitated a moment more before stepping around Whitney to rummage behind several paintings he had stacked up in a corner. Just before pulling one out, he looked uneasily at the open door into the shop.
“Shall I close it?” Adam asked, sensing Danny’s disquiet.
Danny nodded, and Adam quickly and silently closed the door.
Danny hesitantly handed the first painting to Whitney. Adam stepped closer to see.
The painting was far different from the man monsters lining the walls. It featured three smiling faces, two adults and one child. As dissimilar as the man and woman’s features were on either side, the child’s face in the middle linked them together. He reflected the big brown eyes and prominent widow’s peak of the mother, and the Roman nose and curly brown-black hair of the father.
“What a beautiful family,” Whitney said, the sincere warmth in her voice filling the room.
For the first time a small smile found Danny’s mouth.
“That’s you as a young boy, isn’t it, Danny?” Whitney asked, pointing to the child.
He nodded.
“And your parents?”
“That’s my mom. I never saw my dad. But this is what I think he must have looked like.”
“He’s a handsome man, Danny. Did your mother help you to compose his face?”
“No, my mom’s…she’s never seen this picture.”
“Are you saying you painted what you imagined your father would look like based on your mother’s features and yours?”
“Yes.”
“That’s remarkable. He looks so perfect I can’t imagine his appearance any other way. How did your dad die?”
“It was a bus accident. It wasn’t his fault.”
Danny’s tone had suddenly become defensive when he added that last, hasty sentence. He looked down at his paintstained hands, uncertain if he had said the wrong thing.
Adam understood when Whitney’s next question smoothly eased away from what was obviously a painful topic. “Have you done anything else like this portrait of your family?”
Danny nodded and rummaged again through the stack of posters coming out with several more composites. Adam noted a light layer of dust on the edge as he handed the first one to Whitney.
“When one of the salesgirls saw my family’s painting, she asked me to draw her and her boyfriend and what their future child would look like if they had one.”
Like the first drawing of faces, Adam could see that this one included the images of two adults. Only this time there was a little girl between them. Her happy little face picked up subtle features inherent in those of the prospective parents. It was a remarkable projection and very believable. Despite the nightmares that populated his other illustrations, Danny obviously had an eye for beauty when he concentrated on the human face.
“This is great,” Whitney said, her natural warmth once again coming through her tone and expression.
Danny’s smile was even bigger this time. “This is just an early sketch. The final one was much better. The salesgirl insisted on paying me for it. She showed it to her friends. For a while there I was spending all my spare time doing this kind of stuff.”
Danny handed over the rest of the sketches to Whitney. Adam could see each of the fictional children emerged with the best of the features of its prospective parents, yet with a distinctive look and personality of its own.
“Danny, I’m so impressed,” Whitney said after she had studied them all. “I’ve never seen anything like these drawings.”
“Ah, stuff like this is done all the time now,” Danny said, but his eyes were shining. “They’ve even programmed computers to do it. They call it the Gene Machine or something like that. The couple goes into this booth and have their pictures taken, and then the photo machine combines their features to project those of their future child.”
“Still, I doubt a machine could do anything as beautiful as these,” Whitney said. “Are you still painting them?”
Danny looked down at his hands. “Naw, my uncle found out. He got real mad and made me stop.”
“Why is that?” Whitney asked.
“He doesn’t like me to fool around with stuff that isn’t going to make the store money.”
“Not even when you do it on your own time?”
“Yeah, well, I guess you could say I owe him all my time.”
“Why would you think that, Danny?”
“He took me and my mom in when my dad died. We didn’t have any money or anything. We still live with him and my grandfather. We owe them everything.”
As Danny said the words, his shoulders slumped as though they were strapped in some kind of tight emotional harness.
Adam watched as irritation passed through Whitney’s eyes. “I’m sure you’ve more than repaid any debt, Danny,” she said, the irritation coming out in her tone.
Danny looked at her with a curious expression in his eyes.
“Mr. Justice is the executor of Patrice Feldon’s estate,” Whitney continued on a lighter note. “Ms. Feldon has named you and your mother as beneficiaries in her will. Would you try to remember her for us? She might have been using another name, Patrice Waring.”
“Sorry, but that name doesn’t sound familiar, either.”
“She was a very beautiful woman with large violet eyes and long blond hair.”
“Naw. Someone like that I would’ve remembered. Besides, it stands to reason there’s been a mistake, doesn’t it? I mean why would anyone like her leave me anything?”
“What’s going on in here?” a voice boomed out as the door suddenly swung open. Danny jumped backward, his face freezing in what Adam recognized as pure dread.
Chapter Six
Whitney swivele
d in her seat to see a middle-aged man standing in the doorway with too much girth around his waist and too much arrogance around the cigar hanging out of his mouth.
She watched as the man’s eyes swept over Danny, Adam and then her, coming to rest on the drawings she held in her hands.
His face twisted in anger. “So that’s it. You’re at it again.”
“No, no,” Danny said. “It’s not what—”
“Shut up!” the man screamed. “Don’t tell me any of your lies, you little bastard. I got eyes.”
Whitney put down the drawings and got to her feet, anger rising in her throat. “Now, listen here—”
“No, you listen, lady. I’m Edgar Kirkbin, this is my shop, Danny works for me and he does what I say. And I say he doesn’t do that crap anymore. So you can just take your boyfriend here and hit the road.”
Whitney’s anger rose so fast against this foul-mouthed man and his foul-smelling cigar that she had to fight to get a disclaimer through her lips. “This man is not my boyfriend, and we are not here to—”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Outside.”
Kirkbin lunged forward to grab for Whitney’s arm. He never connected. Because suddenly Adam blocked his way.
Whitney was used to fighting her own battles and normally resented any interference. But she felt a very uncharacteristic feminine flutter in her midsection as she saw how Adam stood like an impenetrable wall between her and Kirkbin.
Adam’s eyes were ice blue daggers. For the first time Whitney noticed a faint white scar reddening on the side of his neck, snaking down into his white dress-shirt collar. He said not a word. He didn’t have to. His considerable height, breadth and menacing expression said it all.
Whitney smiled in satisfaction as she watched the arrogant look on Kirkbin’s face disintegrate into one of growing alarm. He stepped quickly back, retreating to the door.
Adam slowly and deliberately turned his back on Edgar Kirkbin. That piercing cold light that had been trained on Kirkbin a mere second before disappeared completely from his eyes as he looked at Danny. His voice was even, formal, respectful.
“Mr. D’Amico, please accept my apologies for coming by at this inconvenient time. Here is my card. If you will let my secretary know when you and your mother are available, we can meet to further discuss the legacy left to you. Ms. West?”