The Truth Seeker

by Dee Henderson

  That answered Lisa’s question as to which restaurant Quinn normally frequented. She would have placed him at the more sports-oriented restaurant one level down, not amid this elegance. Apparently she had been wrong.

  The hostess led them to a white linen covered table, two large vases of long stem roses framing the nearby window; she laid down two menus for them. Quinn held Lisa’s chair for her. The hostess took their drink order and left.

  Lisa glanced around before opening the menu. “This is a gorgeous restaurant.”

  “Peaceful,” Quinn agreed. “They’ve got great steaks here.”

  “Another time for me. Unlike you, I had dinner.”

  Their waitress joined them a few minutes later, bringing Quinn’s coffee and her ice water.

  “Good evening. Would you like more time, or are you ready to order?”

  Lisa closed her menu. “I’d like a bowl of French onion soup and a side salad, blue cheese dressing.”

  Quinn held up two fingers. “The same, Sandy.” He handed the waitress the menus.

  “It will be right out.”

  Lisa watched Quinn watch the waitress walk away. “You know her?” He’d been around Chicago enough in the last year she wouldn’t be surprised if he did.

  “She used to work over at the Renaissance Hotel, breakfast shift, if I remember correctly.”

  “You remember the waitresses.”

  He glanced back at her, a distinct twinkle in his eyes. “Sure. You don’t?”

  “I don’t live on eating out.”

  He buttered a piece of the hot bread and offered it to her.

  She accepted. “Is this called breaking bread together?”

  “The Arabs say you can’t fight with someone you eat with.”

  “Do we need to sign a peace treaty?”

  “Insurance never hurts.” He leaned back in his chair, stirring sugar in his coffee. “What’s this I hear about Jennifer possibly getting out of the hospital?”

  Lisa felt her fatigue disappear as a relieved smile took its place. “The doctors brought up the possibility this morning when the latest blood work showed marked improvement. If she gets another positive panel, she could be out of the hospital in a couple weeks.”

  “That’s fabulous news.”

  “If it happens, the original wedding plans will be back on. Jen and Tom will get married in Houston near her home, so some of her pediatric patients can come.”

  “October 22?”

  “Yes.” It was Jennifer’s parents’ anniversary date, her way of remembering them on her special day.

  “Soon.”

  “Not if you listen to Jennifer. She wants it tomorrow.”

  “Understandable. Are you going to stand up as one of her bridesmaids?”

  “Yes. She’s asked Kate, Rachel, and me.” She’d been ducking that last dress fitting, not wanting to admit they might have to loosen the fabric of the dress so she could handle wearing it for three hours. Anything tight brought a lot of pain. If Kate was there and heard about it, Lisa would have the entire family to deal with again. She was supposed to be telling them the truth when they asked how she was feeling, and she had been doing a decent job of lying this last week.

  “The wedding pictures will be lovely. A bride and three princesses,” Quinn commented, and she couldn’t stop the blush at that speculative gaze. “Have you decided on a wedding gift yet?”

  She’d been worrying about that for weeks; gifts were not her thing and were never easy to choose. “I don’t have a clue.”

  “We’ll go shopping.”

  “We?”

  “A really nice painting from both of us.” He smiled. “Your taste, my money.”

  Oh, that would go over just wonderful in her family. Even if it was an interesting offer. She weighed the need against the comments that would be inevitable. “I’ll buy the painting, you can buy the frame.” The two were often equally expensive, and she was out of time to figure out what to get.

  “Fair enough.”

  She was glad to see the laugh lines back around his eyes, even if it was amusement at her expense.

  “Who’s making the wedding arrangements for Jennifer?”

  “Rachel has been coordinating the details since July, Tom and Marcus are handling the logistics.” Their soup and salads arrived. “I’m surprised you didn’t order a steak.”

  “Wait until you taste this. You made an excellent choice.”

  He was right; the soup was delicious.

  Lisa was pleasantly surprised as the meal progressed. He was good company. Maybe it was the fact they were both coming off a stressful day that made it easier to relax; whatever the reason, she stopped trying to think before she answered a question. And if some of her answers brought a smile, it was at least as much his fault for the question as hers for the answer.

  She looked at her watch as they lingered over coffee at the end of the meal and was surprised to find it was almost eleven. “It’s late. I’d better head home.”

  “I’ve enjoyed the evening,” Quinn replied, refilling his coffee from the carafe Sandy had brought to the table, obviously not bothered by the time. “Finish telling me about Jack. Is he going to have to move fire districts with the station house consolidations?”

  “His has become one of the new hub stations. They’ve transferred another engine and two crews.”

  “How much more territory are they covering?”

  “A mile and a quarter out from the station. It’s dangerous.”

  “Budget cuts always are.”

  “Well it’s my brother being asked to assume the risks.”

  “Who have you complained to?”

  “Besides the fire commissioner, the mayor, and Jack’s city councilman?”

  “Write the newspapers next. Give them a good human interest story—sister who knows the risks is worried about her brother.”

  “Jack would murder me.”

  “Blame me.”

  She thought about that . . . Jack and Quinn . . . it would be about even.

  He chuckled at her expression. “Remind me never to suggest something I don’t mean.”

  “I’ll think about writing the newspaper.” She looked at him and slowly smiled. “Do you play the harmonica?”

  “What? Where did that come from?”

  “Ranch . . . cowboy . . . riding the range . . . playing the harmonica. Do you play?”

  “I’m supposed to find the logic between that question and talking about Jack?”

  “Yes. But you probably wouldn’t understand. Just answer the question.”

  He slowly tipped back in his chair and gradually grinned. “Well, ma’am, now that I think about it—”

  “You do! Oh, this is perfect. Can you teach me to play?”

  “Explain first.”

  “Jack. He dared me to learn to play a musical instrument.”

  “When was this?”

  “We were taking a walk the other night around the park . . . ”

  “Mistake number one.”

  She grinned at him for realizing it. “And we got to talking about what we hadn’t done as kids because we grew up at Trevor House. Jack never got a chance to be a Boy Scout and I never took piano lessons.”

  “And the bet became?” He winked at her surprise. “O’Malleys. That wasn’t hard to see coming.”

  He did know them; Marcus had walked into a few family dares over the years. “I have to learn to play a musical instrument and Jack has to do a dozen good deeds. The bet is payable by his birthday. Lose, and you’re paying the other person’s bills for a month—with your own money. I don’t intend to lose.” She couldn’t afford to.

  “I’ll teach you to play.”

  “What’s it going to cost me?”

  He shook his head. “Uh-uh, I’m saving this one.”

  “Quinn.”

  “I’ll be nice. It’s me or the local piano teacher.”

  It wasn’t that hard of a decision to make. “I can afford a harmoni
ca.”

  “I’ve got a story I need to tell you.”

  It was late. Quinn had insisted on giving her a lift home, that they’d get her car the next day. Lisa turned her head against the headrest, pulled out of her quiet reverie of a relaxing evening by his words.

  Secrets. How well she knew them, how well she understood that slightly different tone that came into someone’s voice when the territory of such a memory was invaded. “We can take a walk around the pond, if you like.”

  He parked in front of her house instead of pulling into her drive. “No. I think I’d just rather sit out here if you don’t mind.”

  The passenger door was already locked; Lisa turned to rest against it. “If you’d like. I’m comfortable.”

  She saw his smile in the faint light of the streetlight. “I’ll make it the Cliff’s Notes.”

  He reached over and adjusted the side mirror, killing time rather than speaking, for the street was quiet as it passed midnight. “Did Marcus ever tell you about the reason I became a marshal?”

  “I once heard a rumor that it was to cover his backside,” she replied, grateful it was true. She didn’t have to worry as much about Marcus knowing Quinn was with him.

  “That’s the reason I stay a marshal,” Quinn replied with a chuckle.

  “Then no, I don’t think I heard. Why did you?”

  He hesitated over his words. She knew this man; hesitation wasn’t a normal part of his makeup. She settled deeper into the seat, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain that shot across her back and curled her toes inside her tennis shoes. “We keep secrets in this family very well. Despite the grapevine, there’s another, quieter code of honor none of us would ever think to break. Marcus doesn’t talk about you, not the confidences . . . neither do Kate or Jennifer.”

  “I know that, Lisa. It’s just been private for a very long time.”

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it. A secret shared implied a two-way street. And she didn’t want to be sharing hers.

  “When I was twenty-four, back from college, working at the ranch, I found buzzards circling what I thought would be a heifer who had died giving birth. What I found was my father, shot in the back. His killer has never been found.”

  There were no words for the grief she felt at the news. It welled up inside; she could see the scene as he would have encountered it. “It was a hot day?” she whispered.

  “June 18, not a cloud in the sky. Out in the south pastureland by the bluffs.”

  Sandy soil, limestone based, coarse grass—it would have helped slow the ravages of decay beginning at the moment of death, but only slowed not stopped the reality. “I am so sorry.”

  “I became a marshal when it became obvious the case had become cold. I’ve been working it in my spare time ever since.”

  “That’s why you don’t spend much time at the ranch.”

  “I love the land and ranching as a lifestyle. I’ll go back to it full-time eventually, but for now it’s a reminder that there is unfinished business.” He sighed. “That’s the start of my story. There’s more.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “A girl named Amy Ireland disappeared the same day my father was shot. She didn’t live close by, but for Montana distances, her family would be considered neighbors. She was seventeen at the time. The police considered the possibility of a runaway, foul play, an accident . . . they worked the case for years until having to accept it also was cold.”

  “You think they are linked. The disappearance of Amy and the murder of your father.”

  “I’ve been working both to try to find out.”

  For twenty years he had been working the two cases during his off hours. She needed a better word than tenacious. Committed. He wasn’t going to ever give up. She admired him for that. And for all the years she had known him, he had never said anything. She was disappointed in that but had to accept that her attitude toward him over the years had probably been the reason; it hadn’t encouraged confiding something this critical. And then it clicked. “This has something to do with the Rita Beck file you requested.”

  “It does. Lincoln found a connection between Amy and Rita. They were friends when they were sixteen.” He thrust his fingers through his hair. “I’ve spent the last three days looking at everything I know about Amy and the two-week visit she made to Chicago for an art camp. I’m more convinced than ever that the break I need might be found in their friendship—a teenage confidence, something Amy told Rita, that from the perspective of today will mean something.”

  “I’d like to help.”

  “I’ve been trying to avoid asking you to get involved.”

  That hurt. He saw it and shook his head. “Lisa, it’s not personal. There’s a lot that’s going on unrelated to this right now, and I’d rather be cautious and limit this to Marcus, Lincoln, and myself.”

  Something that had him worried—something dangerous. Kate acted the same way when her gut was telling her something wasn’t right. She didn’t want people around. “Then why tell me now?”

  “Because I need to see where Rita died. And I need you to show me.”

  Nine

  The former Grant Danford estate was forty acres in Lake Forest, backing up into the Lake Bluff Forest Preserve and the Skokie River. Lisa was grateful she was finally able to handle a car ride without having to brace for every turn. Quinn was a safe driver, but his attention was elsewhere and he was ignoring the speed limit to instead flow with traffic. The fact he said nothing during the hour-long drive was also a good indication he had other things on his mind.

  She understood the intensity that demanded a case be solved. She’d been there. She understood now what had made him the way he was: patient, steady, but tenacious. What had happened to his father was always there in the background, lingering as an unanswered question, eating at him because it remained unsolved. It had to have contributed to why he had never settled down; he’d been focused on the past, not his own future.

  He had gone to church with Kate, Dave, and Marcus, then had come over to pick her up afterward. As graciously as she could she had declined his invitation last night to join them. He hadn’t pushed the subject, but he’d been studying her as he asked the question, noting her reaction. And what he had seen must have bothered him for he started to ask something, then caught himself and changed the subject.

  The last thing she needed was Quinn deciding to probe that subject too.

  Lisa knew she’d made a tactical mistake. Kate was the heart and soul of the O’Malley family, and when she keyed in that there was something wrong, she didn’t leave it. Their conversation four days ago had triggered a red flag, and Lisa knew it hadn’t helped that she’d cut off a similar conversation with Jennifer; a fact that might have gotten back to Kate.

  At times she hated the family dynamics. If she read them wrong, couldn’t finesse a situation, more often than not it triggered an issue into a state of prominence rather than getting it buried as she hoped.

  All the O’Malleys had pasts that were complex and areas of their lives before Trevor House they rarely talked about. But those zones of privacy were around things they didn’t talk about easily, not around things that were hidden. And she was hiding. That had Kate worried, and it was only a matter of time before Marcus came by. He wasn’t a casual guardian of the O’Malley family. He cared enormously, would want to do whatever he could to fix what was wrong.

  It would hurt to push them away and hurt if she let them in. She just wanted the past to stay the past. It couldn’t be fixed, she knew that, but they’d try anyway because they were O’Malleys. Because they loved her.

  She’d been the focus of the family since the injury, now this. . . . She had to figure out a way to get their attention focused on someone else. The power of the group could be overwhelming.

  What she needed was an excuse to be so busy she could honestly say she didn’t have time. It had worked before; it would work again. She’d just have to figure out how to sta
y ahead of them for a while.

  She looked at Quinn, considering the unthinkable. If she said yes to a few invitations, she wouldn’t be using him exactly. It wasn’t like he ever saw someone for more than a few months, and that would be enough time to get out of this family scrutiny. And if she did say yes to a couple church visits—at least it would deflect their concern and give her some space.

  It was the coward’s way out of the problem.

  It was depressing to realize she was seriously considering it.

  “Who owns the estate now?” she asked as Quinn turned into the long, winding private drive that led back to the house, grateful for the time being that she could focus on work.

  “Richard and Ashley Yates. They’re in Europe for a month. They weren’t thrilled with the news the old murder case was being looked into again, but Lincoln convinced them that it would be best to let him do it rather than risk someone else eventually investigating who would not be as cautious about keeping it out of the press.”

  Quinn parked in the estate’s driveway turnabout. “We’re going to be meeting with the manager of the stables. When the Yates bought the estate, they also bought Grant’s horses and they kept him on.”

  “Samuel Barber? Berry? Something like that . . . ”

  “Barberry. Good memory.”

  “I’m surprised he’s still working. He had to have been in his seventies when I met him.”

  “I spoke with him briefly—Scottish?”

  “Yes. He was the one who found Rita’s body. They were rebuilding the stone terrace behind the stables; the land slopes to the river, and it was terraced to make room for a level exercise ring. They were replacing and leveling stones when they found her remains.”

  “I’ve read Lincoln’s notes, scanned the full file early this morning.” He shut off the car and removed his keys. “You excavated her grave?”

  She nodded; some of the realities of her job were best left unstated. She’d been here the good part of three days, the age of the crime scene having her working with archaeologist’s tools to brush away the layers of dirt from the bones.

  “Good. I won’t have to wonder about evidence having been missed.”