by Lisa Jackson
Frowning, she stared at the light fixture overhead. Had she? Was she responsible for the horrifying accident that took two lives?
She squeezed her eyes closed. No. No. Of course not. With an effort, she tamped back all those same memories that haunted her about Mazie and Officer Unfriendly. The more she thought about them the worse she felt.
Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed again, tossed on a light robe, and walked to the window to look out at the skyline of houses, trees, and a winter sun that looked like it might actually warm her frozen insides. It was no good telling herself she wasn’t to blame for random acts of violence and accidents. She felt responsible, and though no sane person would point a finger at her for the deaths of Officer Unfriendly, Mazie, and Court—not to mention Whitney Bellhard—Elizabeth felt as if she were holding her breath, waiting for the other shoe to fall. Could all of these violent deaths really be coincidence? Could they? She couldn’t help feeling like the common denominator. For months, she’d told herself she was making too much of it, that she was normal, that coincidences do happen, even really spooky ones . . . but with Court’s death . . . She shook her head to stop the thoughts.
She had to go to work this afternoon. Misty was coming over to take care of Chloe and give Elizabeth time to show more properties to the Sorensons who were the couple Mazie had fought over so hard. After all the months of viewing every home that came on the market, they’d finally settled on a house . . . only to be outbid. Now, they were deciding between two sprawling mansions and Elizabeth should have been a helluva lot more excited about the possible sale. In truth, all she felt was anxiety and a deep, dark fear that she might be going out of her mind.
Drawing a breath, she stared out across the backyard fence to the roof of the house next door. She needed to rouse Chloe from her favorite spot, squarely in front of the television set. It was time to start readying the little girl for the rest of her day.
There were other decisions to be made, as well. Financial decisions relating to Court’s death, but Elizabeth dreaded the thought of meeting with the lawyer. Just talking to the man on the phone had made her feel weary.
“Mommy?”
She glanced over to see her blond, blue-eyed daughter standing in the doorway. Chloe’s nightgown barely reached her knees. Her daughter was growing like a weed, growing up too fast. In the back of Elizabeth’s mind she made a mental note to go through Chloe’s drawers and donate all the clothes she’d outgrown.
“Hey, there,” she said, padding to the doorway to pull her daughter into her arms.
Chloe immediately squirmed to be free. She wasn’t much of a hugger and never had been. “When are we going to the park?” she demanded.
“I don’t know if we have time. Misty’s coming over.”
“I want to go to the park now.”
“I know. But it’ll have to wait. Come on. I’ll make you breakfast.” Elizabeth was firm. Since Court’s death, Chloe, always willful, had been more stubborn than usual. Considering that the little girl had just lost her father, it wasn’t hard to understand. Still, letting Chloe always get her way was a slippery slope.
“I already had breakfast,” Chloe declared.
“A banana does not a breakfast make.” Elizabeth walked past her to the kitchen, pulled out the frozen waffles, tossed them in the toaster oven, then went back to the refrigerator for the blueberry syrup and an aerosol can of whipped cream. Lurching into the room behind her mother, Chloe carried herself half bent over as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders and sighed dramatically.
Elizabeth ignored her. Sometimes the less said, the better.
If this kind of acting out and being argumentative was the way Chloe chose to deal with the fact that Daddy wasn’t coming home any longer, it was a small price to pay. Elizabeth figured the obvious rebellion was far better than if her daughter were internalizing, which had never been Chloe’s way.
Even when Elizabeth had pulled Chloe onto her lap and broken the news that Court wasn’t coming home anymore, that he was, in fact, in heaven—words she’d nearly choked on as she had trouble thinking of Court and heaven in the same thought—Chloe had stared at her long and hard, then said, “No, he’s not,” and had climbed off Elizabeth’s lap and stomped off to her room. When Elizabeth had peered in to ask if she was okay, Chloe had looked up at her guilelessly, big blue eyes round with innocence. “Fine,” was her answer before playing with some dolls that were scattered on the floor. She hadn’t asked anything further about her father, and though Elizabeth had purposely kept mentioning Court, Chloe hadn’t responded.
And then she’d told Barbara in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t going to the funeral.
An odd reaction, but one Elizabeth had defended in her true mother-bear style, telling Barbara to back off. As she started the coffeemaker and heard the water hissing through the pump, she was beginning to worry that something else was going on.
Thinking of her daughter’s recurring and still undiagnosed illness, she wondered if Chloe’s disaffection was hiding some deeper, darker emotion and decided to make another appointment with the doctor. She seemed to be adjusting, but maybe she should ask Dr. Werner for the name of a child psychologist, just in case.
Watching her daughter pour blueberry syrup in a thick pool over her waffles, Elizabeth reminded herself they were in an adjustment period and not to look too hard for problems above and beyond normal grieving. Still, she didn’t want to miss anything. Most important to her was that Chloe was all right, that her daughter was reacting normally, that Elizabeth hadn’t misread a sign of deeper psychological problems.
As Elizabeth watched her little girl tuck into her meal, she was overwhelmed with a sudden terrifying thought. If you killed those people . . . if somehow, some way, it was because you were angry with them, because you thought dark, dark thoughts, and yes, even wished them dead, that they did perish in horrific deaths, you need to make sure you keep a tight lid on your emotions. Keep things copacetic. Stay calm. No extreme mood swings.
Because, Elizabeth, you don’t know whom you could hurt.
With a new fear slithering through her, she stared at her daughter. Elizabeth loved Chloe with all her heart, but that didn’t mean she was never angry with her child, didn’t mean her temper didn’t flair when Chloe disobeyed.
Oh. God.
“What?” Chloe demanded, glancing up as she felt the weight of Elizabeth’s intense gaze. Her little eyebrows drew together as if she were confused.
“Nothing,” Elizabeth hastily said, her heart in her throat, her insides quivering at the dark turn of her thoughts. “Look, honey, when you’re finished, why don’t you grab your coat. It’s nice out now, but it’s supposed to rain again. Maybe we can sneak in a quick trip to the park after all.”
The first Rex Kingston learned of the girl was when she walked into his office and immediately rubbed his part-time helper, Bonnie, the wrong way. The raised voices caught his attention just as he was about to send Bonnie home and slip out and start his evening surveillance of the cheating Mrs. Cochran who was quasi-famous for being on two different reality shows, breaking up one of the other contestants’ marriage on both, then marrying the producer of an entirely different show who believed she was screwing yet another guy who seemed to be a fitness guru of some kind.
Hollywood. It doesn’t get any better than this, he thought drily.
He’d pulled an Angels baseball cap low over his eyes and changed into gray sweatpants, sneakers, and a black sweatshirt over a T-shirt with a zipper at his throat. He could be a jogger, or someone planning to work out, or just a person hanging loose on a Saturday afternoon. What he didn’t plan to be was the man in the casual dress shirt and sunglasses who’d been watching the house from his vehicle the last few days. He was someone else. A stranger in a different car. Just in case Kimberley Cochran or her lover or anyone else was looking.
He turned toward the back door and the parking lot where he kept his own non
descript, several years old, blue Nissan sedan—a car meant for surveillance—and the newer dark gray Hyundai Sonata that he’d rented for the day. Though he was certainly no prize himself, Mr. Dorell Cochran, the producer who’d had the misfortune of marrying the beautiful and wily Kimberley Babbs, had been clear that he was ready to pay almost any amount of money to get the goods on his wife.
“Do what you have to do,” the bear of a man had growled. “Just goddamn get it done.”
Sleazy work? Well, yeah. Not as satisfying as helping families find missing loved ones? That, too. But issues like the Cochrans’ paid the bills, handsomely, and though occasionally dangerous—Kingston did sport that scar behind his ear where a really pissed off football player who hadn’t been quite good enough for the pros had taken offense when Rex had convinced his terrified ex-girlfriend to go to the police and testify about all his criminal activities—at least it wasn’t boring. Luckily that brute was still in jail and Rex’s ear was still intact.
He’d been shot at once, too, though that was while he was still on the force. The bullet had missed by a good six inches. That’s what he told himself, though the memory of that still had the power to send a shiver down his back. It had served as one of the reasons he’d left law enforcement, though it was the bureaucracy that was the true culprit of his disillusionment. His current profession had found him rather than the other way around; people wanted help in all manner of family issues without the straitjacket of police policies. Not that Rex worked outside the confines of the law, usually. Just sometimes. In any case, his business had flourished over the past decade. He was at the point where he couldn’t do it all by himself and had been thinking of taking on a partner.
As he turned down the back hall, he made the mistake of garnering a look at the newcomer—a young woman in loose, drab clothing, a backpack slung over one shoulder, a dark blond braid draped over the other, facing down Bonnie as if they were readying for one-on-one combat. Bonnie, who was just as young, but dark-haired, half-Hispanic, and fiery when her authority was questioned was glaring at the newcomer with flashing dark eyes.
Rex immediately turned and headed to the front of his establishment, which was little more than a small reception area, two chairs, Bonnie’s desk, and a rather sickly looking plant in a pot near the window. “Hello,” he said, greeting the girl.
She regarded him with wary blue-green eyes. She would have been drop-dead gorgeous if she tried at all, but he could sense that appearance was way down her list of priorities. She had a grimness of purpose about her that clearly wasn’t going to be put off by the fact that Bonnie had puffed up like a bantam rooster.
“Are you the private investigator?” she asked. “Rex Kingston?”
“It’s Mr. Joel Kingston,” Bonnie corrected flatly.
“A lot of people call me Rex,” he said, seeking to pour oil on troubled waters. Sometimes Bonnie was more trouble than she was worth. “More people than call me Joel.”
“Do you find missing persons?” she asked, lifting her chin.
“Yes. Sometimes.”
“I would like to hire you to find my cousin.”
Bonnie put in tightly, “I told her the agency rates and she swore and said we were criminals.”
“I said, ‘God Almighty, that’s insane. You’re all a bunch of bandits down here,’ ” the girl corrected.
“Down here?” Rex questioned.
She circled the receptionist’s desk to shake hands with Rex, watching Bonnie like a hawk. “I came from the Oregon coast, a town called Deception Bay.”
“Hitchhiking?” Bonnie asked, wrinkling her nose.
The girl faintly smiled. “Mostly. My name’s Ravinia.”
Rex shook her hand. “Ravinia,” he repeated. “Do you have a last name?”
“It’s just Ravinia, for now.”
He stared at her. Folded his arms across his chest. “Okay, but if you want me to help you, you have to be honest with me. That’s the deal.”
Ravinia nodded slowly, her frown saying she was really thinking that one over.
Bonnie’s eyebrows shot up and the glance she gave him silently said See? I told you so. Nut job.
Ravinia caught the look and her own eyes narrowed at the receptionist before she turned back to Rex, jaw taut.
Purposely ignoring the interplay, Rex asked, “So, Ravinia, you want to find your cousin?”
“I have money.” She threw a defiant look Bonnie’s way.
Bonnie had lapsed into injured silence.
He could tell she thought he hadn’t backed her up enough. “I’m on my way out. Why don’t you come by tomorrow morning and we’ll discuss what you want to do.”
“I’ll pay your bandit’s rates if I have to, but I’m not leaving,” Ravinia said. As if to underscore her point, she dropped her backpack on the floor and sank down beside it, seating herself cross-legged on the floor.
Bonnie’s gaze flew to his face as if to say See?!
“I’m going out on a job and we’re going to close up here,” Rex said.
“Is that how you dress for work?” Ravinia asked curiously.
“Sometimes. Surveillance jobs,” he added.
Ravinia said, “I’ll wait.”
“Didn’t you hear him?” Bonnie snapped. “We’re closing.”
“If you won’t let me stay inside, I’ll wait outside the front door.”
“We won’t open again until Monday,” Bonnie declared, rolling her eyes toward Rex as if to say Can you believe this?
“Where are you staying?” Rex asked her.
“I don’t have an address.”
“You’re homeless?” Bonnie asked with scarcely disguised contempt.
Ravinia regarded her coolly. “I have a home in Deception Bay, but I’m not there now, so yeah . . . I’m homeless.”
“Maybe you should pay for a motel.” Bonnie sniffed.
“I’d rather pay for your services,” Ravinia said, turning her attention back to Rex. “If I have to, I’ll wait till Monday, but I’d rather get going now.”
“Well, you can’t stay here,” Bonnie huffed, opening a lower drawer in the desk and pulling out her purse.
“Watch me,” Ravinia told her, parked on the floor.
“Mr. Kingston,” Bonnie choked out, turning to him for help.
He’d had trouble before with Bonnie’s territorial streak; Ravinia wasn’t the only potential client she’d turned away because she’d made her own judgment call.
“Why don’t you come back into my office for a minute,” Rex said to Ravinia.
Bonnie inhaled on a hurt gasp.
He knew she felt he’d undermined her, but it couldn’t be helped. “You go on ahead. I’ll lock up.”
“I’ll stay,” she said hurriedly.
Rex wasn’t having it. “You said you had a date for dinner. Go on. I’ve got this.”
Clutching her purse, Bonnie stood. Undecided for a moment, trying to come up with some way to stay, she lifted her hands as if she couldn’t understand what was happening, then let them drop. “If that’s what you want.”
“I do,” he asserted and her back stiffened. It was her MO when she felt thwarted.
Rex wished to high heaven that she would just do the job he paid her for, which was manning the front desk, answering the phone, and taking down information. Bonnie was the daughter of a friend of a friend and when he’d first met her, Rex had been grateful for the help. Before Bonnie, he’d run his business by cell phone, but it was better having an actual office telephone and a receptionist as it made him seem more “legitimate” to the sometimes skittish clientele who deemed his profession seedy and full of graft. Too many television PIs, and well, there was some truth there, too.
Apparently unable to come up with another argument, Bonnie threw Ravinia a look of contempt and stalked out the front door, just coming short of slamming it behind her.
Rex locked it behind her, then led Ravinia to his office and gestured for her to take one of the client
chairs on the opposite side of his desk, while he perched a hip on the edge and crossed his arms over his chest. “I have only a few minutes, so go fast.”
Ravinia stared at him hard for a moment. A dark intensity simmered in those blue-green eyes.
He felt something slide through him, something warm, almost like the heat that came with embarrassment, a flash that was gone before he could define it. Did she do that? he asked himself, startled.
No. Way. He wanted to dismiss the notion as ridiculous. And yet . . .
“I’m looking for my cousin, Elizabeth Gaines. She was adopted as a baby by Ralph and Joy Gaines who apparently moved to Sausalito. I went there and found a different Ralph Gaines, a couple of them, actually, but one knew about them because a prescription got messed up. He called Ralph and Joy up to warn them about the mix-up so it wouldn’t happen again and he found out that they were moving to Santa Monica.” She said it without blinking once. With a shrug, she added, “So, I left the San Francisco area and went to Santa Monica. Then I found you.”
“Did you find them?”
“No.” she said simply. “That’s why I need you.”
He eyed her with new respect; there was more to this young girl than first met the eyes. “But you’ve done some investigating on your own. How did you learn about me?”
“Some lady was talking about you in Starbucks. You found Kayla for her.”
“Ahhh . . .” Rex rubbed his nose, hiding a smile. She was so forthright it was amusing.
“I could find Elizabeth myself,” the girl insisted, “but I don’t have a car or a license to drive one, and my disposable phone doesn’t give me the Internet or GPS or anything else. It’s dead right now, anyway. I just want to find her fast.”
“Ralph and Joy Gaines of Santa Monica?” He glanced at his watch. He needed to get onto his surveillance and was already late.