by Linda Turner
But immersing herself in the stories, she’d soon grown fascinated by the details. The passage of time didn’t lessen the horror felt at the thought of a three-year-old child being snatched out of her bed in the middle of the night; hadn’t dimmed the tragedy of the girl’s parents being killed in a car accident less than six months after her safe return.
Tremaine made no move to take the stack of articles, and his voice when it came was more than a little disparaging. “If you were half as careful with your research as you’d like me to believe, you’d have discovered that I’m no fan of tabloidism.”
Tori dropped the clippings back in the open briefcase. “And your family’s no stranger to it. I got that. But a good investigator uses every tool at her disposal, and newspapers are a great place to start.” Looking up again, she caught his gaze on her. “Do you have the name of the person who hired my dad after your parents’ accident?”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. She saw the answer on his face, in the deliberately blank mask that he’d drawn over his features. She sat back, a bit stunned. “It was you, wasn’t it? But you were barely more than a kid yourself at the time.”
“I’ve always felt that need dictates maturity more reliably than does age.”
She could wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment. Even at twenty-eight her husband wouldn’t have approached anyone’s definition of mature. Which was only one of the many reasons he’d become her ex.
Thoughts of Kevin Stephen Corbett III were delegated to a particularly shadowy corner of her mind, where she preferred to keep them. “So you hired my dad to investigate your parents’ accident?” She didn’t need his answer to be certain she was on the right track. Which was fortunate, because he didn’t appear disposed to give her one.
“Ms. Corbett…” It was clear Tremaine had reached the end of his patience.
“Earlier you called me Tori,” she reminded him.
He drew in a breath, expelled it slowly. “Tori.” She decided her name had sounded better on his lips when it wasn’t uttered from a tightly clenched jaw. “The only help I was interested in you cannot provide. You can’t produce the files and, unfortunately for us both, your father can’t answer my questions.” He headed for the door, a not-so-subtle indication that the meeting was over. “Thank you for returning the money. I hadn’t expected it.”
“Then you must be used to dealing with a different caliber of people.”
He turned, his lips curving just slightly. “I think we can both be assured of that.”
“So if you’re the one who hired my dad after your parents’ accident, you’d have your own file on that investigation. He wouldn’t have kept anything of interest in his that he hadn’t shared with you.” She ignored his stoic gaze, cocked her head, mind still racing furiously. “And why now? I mean, what would suddenly make you start looking for information that’s more than twenty years old?”
There was a definite un-Bond-like muscle twitching in his cheek. “I just happen to have some spare time on my hands and thought I’d check into a few things I’d been wondering about.”
Tori shook her head, slouched more comfortably in her chair. “Now you’re not even trying. If you’re going to lie, make it believable.”
His eyes narrowed. Again she was given an impression of danger lurking just beneath his polished exterior. “Are you sitting in my office calling me a liar?” The lethal tone suggested that she backpedal, fast.
It was a suggestion she chose to ignore. “A not-very-good liar,” she corrected. “I’d think it was lack of practice, but given your experience in the corporate world, you must have plenty of that. So I figure it’s just me. You don’t know me, so you don’t respect me enough to expend the energy necessary for a really good story.” She waved a hand, indicating she wasn’t going to take offense. He appeared less than impressed with her forbearance. “I’ve given this some thought and I figure something had to have happened to torch your curiosity about those events.”
“You have an overactive imagination.”
She refused to take offense. “Uh-uh, just an ability to connect the dots. The FBI never did catch whoever kidnapped your sister when she was a toddler, but she was found safe and sound before your family paid a ransom. So it’s doubtful that you’re interested in that particular investigation. That leaves the one you hired my dad for. Since you’ve waited this long, something must have happened recently to convince you there was more to the story.”
His face was impassive. “Are you finished?”
“Almost.” Something about his still air had a chill skittering down her spine. She’d trailed unsavory characters through the back alleys of New Orleans and never experienced this level of unease. Shaking off the reaction, she went on with more confidence than she felt, “You may not have gotten what you came for when you stopped by my office, but I can get it for you.” When he started to speak, she held up a hand to stop him. “I understand you’ve got a brother who has made a name for himself as a detective for the NOPD. He’s probably capable of acquiring certain types of information, as well, but it occurred to me that had you wanted to involve him, he would have been the one to show up at Landry Investigations, instead of you.”
She reached into her briefcase again, surprised to see her hands trembling, just a bit. Handing him a file folder, she said, “You came to me looking for answers of some kind, Mr. Tremaine. Whether you know it or not, you need me if you hope to find them.”
Chapter 2
Chewing on the inside of her cheek was a nervous habit she’d outgrown when she was twelve, so Tori willed herself to stop doing it now. But that flinty-eyed stare Tremaine arrowed at her after glancing at the pictures in the file folder would have mowed down the firmest intentions. “Where did you get these?”
“From a scumbag photojournalist who’s a great admirer of his own work.” Kiki Corday wouldn’t blink at the description, as long as he’d made a buck on the deal. He also never threw away a shot he’d taken as long as there was the remotest possibility he could still cash in this time. He’d certainly cashed in on it. “He assured me they wouldn’t have been part of the police file.”
“They weren’t.” Tremaine snapped the folder shut and thrust it toward her again. She felt twinges of sympathy and regret. Sympathy, because looking at old photos of the automobile wreckage that had killed his parents couldn’t be pleasant. And regret that she’d been the one to make him do so. “They also don’t prove a thing.”
“I disagree. They prove that I have sources you don’t.” She lifted her shoulders, then let them fall. “They prove you need me, or someone like me, if you want information. Check out the other contents in the folder.” With a visible show of reluctance, he did so. It took conscious effort for her to push aside a sneaky blade of guilt. James Tremaine was on a quest that was bound to stir up more than a few old wounds. She shouldn’t, wouldn’t feel responsible for his pain. She looked away from him, concentrating on the century-old oaks outside while he flipped through the reports and pictures in the file.
When he spoke, there was a strange note to his tone. “You have a copy of the sheriff’s accident report in here. How’d you get your hands on that?”
Her brows skimmed upward. “It’s what I do, ace. That’s why my license says Investigator. I investigate stuff.”
“I’ve always made it a point to avoid working with smart-asses,” he said mildly, continuing to flip through the file. “Bad for the blood pressure, and who needs the aggravation.”
It took a great deal of effort on Tori’s part to avoid a delighted grin. Not over the smart-ass comment, although truth be told it wouldn’t be the first time the description had been applied to her. But his comment could be interpreted, in a roundabout, insulting sort of way, that he might be considering working with her, couldn’t it?
Adopting a more conciliatory attitude, she said, “If you hire me you’ll have every bit of information that I come across. But I won’t always be able to divulge my sources.”
That brought his gaze snapping up to hers, and she didn’t flinch from it. “The sheriff’s report was easy enough. All motor vehicle accident investigations are a matter of public record. But I’m thinking that the answers you’re looking for won’t be found by going through old records, will they?”
He stared hard at her, long enough to have her decide that those deep-blue eyes of his could be strangely hypnotic. Not that Tori was prone to instant mesmerization from a mere look, she thought uncomfortably, but she was a trained observer. She couldn’t help but notice things like that.
Nodding toward the file he still held, she said, “My purpose in coming here was to show you what I can do. I put those contents together in a day and a half. But if you’re looking for information other than what was included in my dad’s original report to you, I’m going to have to tap completely different sources. And some of them have to remain confidential. It’s a condition for their talking to me at all.”
Tremaine flipped the file closed, tapped the edge against his open palm. “No offense, but I know countless individuals I can hire to look into this for me. Why would I need you?”
She’d been ready for this question, and her answer came smoothly. “I already know why you need a private investigator, which means one less person you have to share the information with. The fewer people who know, the easier it will be to keep quiet. And it was my father you wanted to talk to. I learned the business from him. I know who a lot of his contacts are…were,” she corrected herself, ignoring the pang that accompanied the reminder. “With him gone, I work alone, except for some services that I contract out. You could go with a bigger company, one with more manpower, but that just means more people are going to know about your private affairs.”
The last was a gamble. By the flicker in his eyes, she could assume it had paid off. James Tremaine was, by nature, a very private man. And his quest was an intensely personal one.
“You don’t look old enough to have acquired all that much experience.”
“I’ve had my license three years, but I’d worked for my dad on and off for years before that. My mother died when I was six. I was raised in and around his business.” She stopped then, one of her dad’s favorite sayings drifting through her mind. Put your cards on the table and let the client decide if he wants to talk or walk.
Dragging a matching chair to face hers, he sat, more elegantly than she had. Somehow she managed to suppress a sneer when she noted the care he took with the crease in his trousers.
“Decision-making time, Mr. Tremaine.” Tori leaned back into her chair, the relaxed pose belying the nerves scampering along her spine. “That folder proves I’m capable of conducting the investigation you’re interested in. I’m also tenacious and a good listener.” Because that last had him raising his eyebrows, she shrugged modestly. “People tend to talk to me. That’s a plus in my line of work. And it might be to your advantage to use a woman on this case, did you ever think of that?” At his arrested expression she knew she’d scored a direct hit. “I’m assuming you’ll want this kept quiet.”
“Discretion is imperative.”
She nodded. She offered nothing less to her clients. “As a female I’m apt to rouse less suspicion in certain circles. I can go places, do things, that men can’t.”
He was silent long enough to have disappointment welling inside her, a slow steady surge. Until that moment she hadn’t let herself think of failure, but it faced her now, stark and uncompromising. It was the first job she’d pitched since her dad had died. The first door, since then, to be shut in her face. His death had become a yardstick by which she measured a lot of firsts these days. And lasts.
Snapping the locks shut on the briefcase, she rose, ready to thank him for his time and determined to keep the emotion from her voice.
“I’ll give you a week trial.” Her mouth dropped. “A thousand a week plus expenses, within reason. At the end of that time, I’ll evaluate what you’ve come up with. If I’m not satisfied, you’ll hand over what information you’ve accumulated and we’ll part ways.”
“I…” She swallowed hard and tried to recover her power of speech. “All right. I usually give weekly updates, but under the circumstances…”
“I’ll want daily reports.”
His interruption had her gritting her teeth, but she managed to nod agreeably. She had, after all, gotten exactly what she’d come here for. “All right.”
“I’ll have my lawyer draft a contract tomorrow. You can wait until after you’ve signed it, or start work right away, whichever you’re most comfortable with.”
Now that his decision had been made, he’d changed slightly, she thought. She studied him as he strode to the desk. He’d reverted to type, she realized suddenly. It was the earlier indecision that had been foreign for him. James Tremaine would be a man very much in control of any situation. And now that he’d hired her, now that she’d become just another employee, he was firmly back in charge.
He approached her again with the money she’d returned to him. “You may as well keep this. Half now, and we’ll settle the rest at the end of the week. Are those terms acceptable?”
Slowly, she reached out to take the money. “Sure.” Taking the cash from him, she reopened the briefcase and dropped the money inside. “I’m assuming you kept the original file my father put together for you. I’d like a copy of it sent over with the contract.” She didn’t doubt that he still had it. He wouldn’t be a man to leave anything to chance.
“I’ll do that.”
“So.” Tori sat down and drummed her fingertips against the case in her lap. “Why don’t you tell me what caused you to want to reexamine this? Why now?” She could wait for the file. She didn’t expect to find any surprises in it. Her father apparently hadn’t encountered any during his investigation all that time ago. Her curiosity was more focused on what had made Tremaine decide to dredge up painful ancient history. He wouldn’t be the type to do anything without a reason.
As an answer, he unlocked the center drawer on his desk and withdrew a small white envelope. Crossing to her, he opened it and shook out three slips of paper atop her briefcase. Turning them over, Tori scanned each one, shock layering over adrenaline.
“When did you get these?”
“They began arriving four weeks ago. They were sent to my home, but I have all my personal mail routed to work. I’m here more, anyway.”
“The envelopes?”
“I still have them, but a contact of mine in the postal department assures me they’ll be of little use. They were postmarked in New Orleans, all by different offices.”
Her gaze dropped to the notes again, her flesh prickling. “Have you thought of going to the police?”
“Please.” His tone managed to be both derisive and amused. “If someone really means me harm, they aren’t going to waste time warning me first. I’d be easier to take out if I wasn’t on my guard.”
At the certainty in his words, her eyes met his. “Is that the voice of experience I hear?”
He slipped his hands into his trousers pockets, rocked back on his heels slightly. The casual pose didn’t fool her. She was beginning to doubt that this man ever truly relaxed.
“I don’t consider these serious threats.” It didn’t escape her attention that he hadn’t answered her question. “A private lab I occasionally use informed me there were no fingerprints on the notes other than my own. There were several on the envelopes, of course. But it’s doubtful any of them belong to the sender, which means the police will likely come up with nothing. With their involvement, there’s a higher probability of a leak to the press.”
His tone became clipped, his expression closed. “My family dislikes publicity. With my sister’s recent wedding, and my brothers’ engagement announcements appearing in the papers, there’s been a renewed interest in our history. My firm is on the verge of landing another sensitive contract with the Pentagon, and the last thing I need are new rumors about my family serving as news f
odder to ratchet up slow ratings.”
That was, she supposed, a reasonable enough explanation. Her brief foray into the Corbett family, the Dallas Corbetts—distinguished from the Houston Corbetts primarily by their bank accounts and penchant for social climbing—had taught her that wealthy people had an aversion to publicity. Unless, of course, it involved them handing over a very large check to a suitable charity.
“Let’s talk about your brothers and sister for a minute. What do they think about this?” If she hadn’t known better, she would have believed her question took him off guard. Which was ridiculous, of course. James Tremaine wouldn’t be a man to entertain self-doubts.
“I’d rather not have to tell them,” he said finally. “My sister and her new husband are just settling into married life. My brothers are both in the process of planning their weddings. Raking all this up again is bound to be painful, and in the long run will probably be for nothing. I’d like to spare them that if I can.”
She wondered if they would thank him for that, and thought probably not. But his protectiveness of his family warmed something inside her. She could respect a man who looked out for his loved ones, even if his tactics weren’t appreciated.
Glancing back down at the notes, she observed, “These could have just been sent by someone looking to hose you, you know.”
“You’re most likely correct. But if that’s true, the sender will find that I’m not, as you put it so eloquently, easily hosed. I won’t give in to blackmail.”
She almost grinned. There may be a hint of humor beneath all that tailoring, after all. And she didn’t doubt his words. He wouldn’t be an easy mark, which meant that the sender had grossly underestimated him. Or else was holding something back that would yet prove truly compelling.
As if reading her thoughts, he said, “The only note that interests me is the one about my parents’ accident. I’m not going to pay for any information that this person has, if it comes to that. That’s what you’re for. By reconstructing the investigation into their deaths, you should be able to answer any questions about what really happened.”