Behind the Shadows

by Potter, Patricia;

  “I think you’re prejudiced.” She hesitated, then asked, “You’ve never said much about my father.” It was vital now that she learn more. Leigh had the right to know.

  “He gave me you,” her mother said, “and I always loved him for that. But we were both young. He was a musician, more into drugs than I thought, and a wanderer by nature. He tried. I think he really tried, but the only thing he knew was music and the only way you made music was traveling. When he took off, he left every penny he had. It wasn’t much but it was a lot for him. He sent money for a year, not much, but I suspect it was a lot to him. Then suddenly it no longer came. I tried to find someone who knew something. I finally located one of the band members who was in Atlanta with him. He was killed in an accident.”

  “He didn’t have any family?”

  “He said not.” She squeezed Kira’s hand. “I never talked about him because of the drugs; that part was a nightmare. But you have every right to know. He was a great guitarist but a really poor husband.” She paused. “Don’t ever fall in love in a day.”

  A warning she really needed to heed.

  Her mother squeezed Kira’s hand. “I love you, baby.”

  “Ditto,” Kira replied.

  Her mother lay back. More technicians and nurses came in. More blood taken. Body washed.

  It was really happening.

  Her mother was transferred to a stretcher.

  Kira leaned over to kiss her.

  Watched her wheeled out.

  And started praying.

  15

  Kira paced the large waiting room furnished with lounge chairs. A number of people slept. Others read.

  She couldn’t do either. She was up and down, glancing at the door when anyone entered. The hands on the clock crawled.

  Even then she was startled when her name was called. She glanced at the clock. Only an hour had gone by since her mother was wheeled out. Too soon!

  She went to the door.

  “The donor kidney showed signs of deterioration,” the surgeon said. “We had to abort the transplant. I’m sorry.”

  Hope plunged. The optimism that had played in her mind faded. Now Leigh’s help was essential.

  She had so hoped …

  On many levels.

  She waited for her mother to be wheeled out of the operating room. She was sleepy from the sedative. Kira leaned over and kissed her.

  Katy’s eyes fluttered open. “Is it over?”

  “The kidney wasn’t good,” she replied. “They didn’t go through with it.”

  “I thought I would hurt a lot more,” Katy said with a touch of her old humor.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “There wasn’t much time to feel lucky about it,” Katy replied. The words were light, but Kira felt the quiet desperation behind them. Her mother was seldom down, at least when Kira was present. She didn’t know what gremlins haunted her mother when she was absent.

  “Go … home,” her mother said. “I’m sleepy, and you probably look worse than I do.”

  “We’ll find a kidney,” Kira said. “I promise.”

  “Go home, sweetie,” her mother said again. “I can’t sleep until you do.” She gave Kira a wan smile. “I love you.” Then she closed her eyes.

  Once out of the hospital, she turned the cell phone back on. Still no messages from Max Payton.

  Her heart, already battered, sank. She had hoped he would get back to her immediately. He knew how urgent it was.

  She would have to go to court, after all.

  She would call Chris first thing in the morning and get the list of attorneys. It may further alienate Leigh Howard, but if she waited, her mother might die. Surely if the woman knew her mother was dying, she would want to help. Right now Leigh Howard was still stunned. Disbelieving.

  Kira understood that. She, too, was trying to wrap her mind around the inconceivable. But she couldn’t wait while Leigh dithered. If she had to use the threat of going after the woman’s fortune, she would.

  She wanted to call Chris immediately, but there was little he could do at this hour. First thing in the morning. Seven. Maybe even earlier. Her eyes blurred by rare tears, she stumbled to her car. There had been so much hope a few hours earlier.

  But she had been warned.

  She walked to her car. The parking lot was much emptier than it had been. A drizzle muted the parking lot lights. It was dark and lonely, and for a moment fear ran through her. The incident on the rapid rail platform was still very real.

  She hurried her steps, unlocked the car from her remote, and stepped inside. She immediately locked the doors, not waiting this time to turn on the engine.

  She’d never been afraid before. Aware, yes. Afraid, no.

  She didn’t like the feeling now.

  She drove back to her mother’s house and parked in the driveway. It had a one-car garage, and her mother’s car stayed there.

  Her mother had bought the small brick home at a steep discount because it was located in a less-than-desirable area, and sales had been slow. Since then, though, the area had become gentrified and property values had spiraled upward.

  The house was as she’d left it. One light on in the dining room, the rest of the interior dark. The porch light was on. Keys in hand, she hurried to the porch, then remembered she hadn’t locked it. She turned the knob and stepped inside. In the dim light coming from the dining room, she saw chaos. Total chaos. The room had been tossed.

  Not searched. Trashed. Papers strewn across the floor. A cut across one of her mother’s favorite paintings. Clothes jerked from hangers and torn. She immediately went to her room and looked for her computer. It was gone. So was her box of jewelry. Nothing really expensive but several nice pieces in the hundred- and two-hundred-dollar range. Stuff she’d carefully selected and really liked.

  She checked the rest of the house. Her mother’s room was equally destroyed. The room that served as an office for the housekeeping business had been tossed. That computer was gone. She searched for the index file of customers. Again gone.

  A lot of the information was in her head. She knew the names, had memorized some of the phone numbers. She could re-create records. But she didn’t like the idea of those names in someone else’s possession. Then she looked in the drawer with the keys to their homes.

  Oh God, they were gone as well. She would have to contact each one and offer to bear the cost of replacing locks.

  Not only that, but what would she tell her mother?

  If her mother ever returned home.

  She called the police, then Chris.

  “Be right over,” he said.

  He was there in fifteen minutes. The police hadn’t arrived.

  “I’m afraid a tossed house isn’t one of their top priorities,” he commented as he glanced around the room. “Christ. This wasn’t just a burglary. This was personal.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Why would someone linger long enough to rip a hole in an inexpensive painting?”

  “A message?” he suggested.

  “From whom?”

  “Written any stories someone may not like?”

  “A bunch. But I can’t imagine any of them pushing someone into doing this. This … this is pure rage.” She paused. “Something else happened earlier today … or yesterday.”

  “What?”

  “I was taking MARTA. It was late. After seven. Someone bumped me on the platform. I almost fell onto the tracks.”

  His eyes ran over her, lingered at her bandaged arm. “Christ, why didn’t you call me?”

  “I thought it was an accident. So did an onlooker who grabbed me. Now …” Her voice faded.

  “What happened tonight? Where were you?”

  “I had a call. The transplant people had a kidney for Mom. I went to the hospital, but it was a false alarm. The kidney had deteriorated. I just left her an hour ago.”

  Chris didn’t say anything, but there was a very big elephant on the table. A big suspicion neither
of them wanted to voice.

  “How much do you want to tell the police?”

  “It can’t have anything to do with the Westerfields,” she said. “They just found out this morning …”

  “You can’t dismiss it, either,” he said quietly.

  “No, but if I say anything to the police … it will be all over the media. It will sound like an accusation, and Leigh … She may never cooperate. I didn’t want to call the police for that reason, but the insurance …”

  The doorbell rang, and Kira answered it. Two uniformed officers stood there. “We had a call about a burglary.”

  She stood aside to let them in. “I’m Kira Douglas. This is my mother’s house, but I’m staying here. She’s in the hospital. I came home after … visiting her and found this …” She gestured with her arm.

  “And you?” asked one of the officers as he faced Chris. He looked about twenty.

  “Chris Burke,” he replied. “I was formerly with the Atlanta police, now a PI.”

  The two officers perked up. “Heard of you,” one said. “You working a case?”

  “Kira’s a friend,” Chris said, avoiding answering the specific question. “Her mother worked for me for years and was great when my wife was sick.”

  The officer turned back to Kira. “When did you come home to find this?”

  Kira looked at her watch. “About thirty minutes ago. I called Chris and the police.”

  “The hospital?” queried one of the officers.

  “My mother has renal failure and is waiting for a kidney transplant. We thought she had one tonight but it … didn’t work out.”

  She answered all their questions, admitting to her carelessness in leaving the door unlocked.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the officer said. “Did anyone know you were leaving?”

  She shook her head. “I just ran out when I heard there might be a chance …”

  “Any idea as to who might have done this? Doesn’t look like a random burglary.”

  She hesitated only a moment before shaking her head. “No.”

  “Anything missing?”

  “Two computers, including a laptop. Jewelry. I don’t know what else yet. A lot of things were just destroyed.”

  He took several forms from a clipboard he’d carried in. “Make a list of all the missing items. Include any registration numbers and bring it to the precinct in the next two days.”

  “That’s all?” she blurted out.

  “What about fingerprints?” Chris asked.

  “You know we don’t do that on a burglary.”

  “Ordinary burglaries, no, but there’s violence here.”

  One of the officers hesitated. “Gotta have a good reason to call in investigators.”

  “Use my name.”

  “You can’t tell me anything else?”

  “I just don’t like what I see here,” Chris said. “I think this lady could be in danger. It’s not your everyday nonviolent burglary.”

  The older officer made a call. She couldn’t hear the conversation, but he soon returned. “A technician will be here in an hour. In the meantime, maybe you can go ahead and make out that list of missing items while he’s here.”

  She didn’t think she could make a list of anything.

  She knew Chris was going out on a long limb for her in asking for more than a rudimentary investigation without saying why. That could come back to haunt both of them. He knew, though, how much she wanted to keep this out of the newspapers, even her own.

  “Kira?” Chris roused her to action.

  She nodded. “I’ll have a preliminary list in a few moments.” She went to her room, found a place among the ruins, and tried to remember all the pieces of jewelry now missing.

  She had to be at work in a few hours. She needed to be a functioning human being. But she was numb. Completely numb.

  Who would have done something like this? A simple burglary was understandable. But there was a viciousness here that sickened her.

  Two technicians arrived twenty minutes later. She watched for several moments as they went about their work. They started with her fingerprints, then moved through the house, leaving white powder in their wake.

  Forty minutes later, the technicians were gone, and she and Chris were left in the house.

  “You going to be okay?” he asked. “You could come and stay with me.”

  She shook her head. “By the time I packed and got there, it would be time to go to work.”

  “Then I’ll stay here on your sofa.”

  “No need.”

  His expression was implacable. “I think there is.”

  “I’ll call Max Payton in a few hours.”

  “Why don’t you call him now?” he said, his voice hard.

  “We don’t know this has anything to do with the Westerfields.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but after twenty years on the police force, I don’t much believe in coincidences,” he said as he picked up pieces of glass. “The Westerfields are the only thing new in your life.” He paused, then added, “If you don’t call, I will. Someone tried to kill you earlier today. Maybe they meant to try again tonight. He—or she—needs to be put on notice, and at this point, Payton should be asking his client some questions.”

  “I don’t think it could be Leigh Howard. She just learned about it Saturday.”

  “Two days. Long enough to hire someone. She stands to lose an inheritance if you’re right.”

  “I told her I didn’t want it.”

  “I doubt she believed you. Few people give up a fortune, and nearly all who have one can’t believe anyone else wouldn’t give everything they have to get one.”

  She hesitated. She had Max Payton’s cell phone, but she hated to be called in the early hours of the morning. Those kinds of calls always terrified her. Still, Chris was right. She had to be at the paper at 7:30 a.m.

  She punched the numbers even as she wondered what she would say if he answered. It was an ungodly hour. He answered after two rings. The cell phone must be next to his bed, or he was a vampire. Or both.

  “Payton,” he answered in a clipped voice. Not sleepy at all.

  “Kira Douglas.”

  Silence. Then, “Good God, do you know what time it is?”

  “I would, if I had a workable clock. Someone trashed my house.”

  Silence, then, “Why call me?”

  “I think someone tried to kill me earlier.”

  “I’m coming over.” The phone went dead.

  That was the last thing she expected. She hadn’t even given him the address. Her old address and phone number were in the phone book. Maybe he would go there.

  Somehow, she thought not. He would know. He would have made it his business to know. He exuded competence.

  She didn’t know if she was prepared for him tonight. She was too heartsick to confront that cynicism. She was still numb by the events of the last twelve hours. She’d gone through a roller coaster of emotions. Terror at the MARTA station. Then spiraling hope. The crushing disappointment that followed. Then the destruction at the house.

  She was running on autopilot at the moment, and she feared anything more would send her careening into a black hole.

  “Damn,” she said. “He’s coming. Now.”

  “Didn’t expect you to back down from a fight.”

  She didn’t. Never had. Never would. She was just so damned tired and frustrated. Time was seeping away. She stood and walked around the room.

  “Do you have any brandy around here?” Chris asked.

  “I think so. I keep it for eggnog at Christmastime. The bottle is ancient.” She started to get up. “If it’s even intact. I didn’t look in the cabinet beside the sink.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  She sat back down. “You’re a very nice man, Chris.”

  “Not always,” he said.

  She looked at his hard face. She imagined he’d probably been very good at his job. And right now she was very, very t
hankful to have him here. She’d been so alone these past few days, especially last night as she’d waited for news at the hospital. She probably should have called him or someone, but she had her mother’s horror of imposing on other people. He had given her the information she needed. She’d hated to ask for more. “Thanks for being here.”

  “You should have called me when you heard about the potential donor,” he said. “You should have called me after the incident at the MARTA station.”

  “It happened so fast … both …” Her voice faded as she tried to defend her action.

  “It’s insulting to me, to your other friends,” he continued. Then his voice softened. “I tried to do everything myself when my wife fell ill. Didn’t work very well and I hurt a lot of friends by shutting them out. Don’t make the same mistake.”

  “I didn’t mean to do that … It’s just imposing …”

  “Christ, you sound like me a few years ago.” He put a hand on her arm. “Let me help, like your mother helped Risa.”

  Dear God, she needed help. She nodded.

  “I hope you mean that,” he said, and went to the kitchen. He returned with two juice glasses half filled. She wondered whether any of the other glasses survived.

  She accepted one of the glasses and took a sip. The brandy burned all the way down.

  He sat on the floor. There were no other chairs left whole in the room. “Tell me exactly what was said when you talked to Payton and Ms. Howard.”

  She told him everything, every word she could remember. She’d called him after meeting with Leigh, but not the attorney. She should have, but she’d still felt blistered by Max Payton’s words.

  When she finished, he asked, “Did you talk to anyone else about the baby switch?”

  “No. No one.” She couldn’t keep her eyes from wandering about the room. She should clean up the house. At least, start. But her mind stopped at the possibility that someone might have tried to kill her, and that someone, or someone else, viciously destroyed everything important to her mother.

  She took another sip of brandy, then asked, “What do we really know about Leigh Howard?”

  “Just what’s been in the newspapers. I’ll start digging deeper. Maybe I’ll stop over there.”

  The doorbell rang.