by Janet Dailey
The windshield wipers were slapping at raindrops when he pulled into his space in the condo’s lot. He took a minute to find a plastic bag under the seat large enough for the envelope with the photocopies. The bag went inside his jacket as a fail-safe to protect the contents. With his free hand, he managed to hoist the large wrapped watercolor of the wild horses. He had to set the painting down to unlock the door of his condo.
Inside he put the plastic bag on the coffee table and then lifted up the painting onto the fireplace mantel, promising himself to unwrap it later and look for a framer’s tag on the back, another possible lead to follow, in case someone at the Art Walk committee was reluctant to give him Erin’s contact info and last name.
A partially muffled but decidedly impatient yowl came from the direction of the living room’s sliding glass doors, followed quickly by the sound of claws on mesh screen. Without hesitation, Bannon altered his course toward the rear patio where a tiger-striped tomcat stood on his hind legs, demanding admission. Bannon took one look at flattened ears and wet fur spiked by the steady drizzle, smiled, flipped the lock, and slid the door open.
Immediately the cat came down on all fours and padded into the living room, grumbling his irritation at being kept waiting when he passed Bannon. “Like you would melt in the rain,” Bannon scoffed.
A pair of golden eyes sliced him a look. In the next second the cat sprang onto the stretch-limo-sized black leather couch and proceeded to rake his tongue over his wet fur.
Bannon watched him for a moment. Big and muscled, the tomcat resembled a boxer—right down to the tattered ears. A year ago, his brother Linc had handed him an open cardboard box. Inside was an injured, scrawny kitten, half-wild.
“He was getting the short end of a fight with some big tom when I rescued him,” Linc had told him. “I thought you two could recuperate together. You know what they say—misery loves company. Meet Babaloo, your company.”
Compared to Bannon’s, the cat’s wounds had been minor, so Babaloo had recovered more quickly than he had. As for the company part, Linc had known what he was talking about. But Bannon wasn’t likely to ever admit that to him.
Leaving the cat to his grooming, Bannon doubled back to the kitchen where he opened the refrigerator and surveyed the shelves. Slim pickings. There was a chunk of cheese with suspicious white spots and a wrinkly apple. He picked up both and tossed them into the garbage, then took out a leftover cooked salmon steak wrapped in foil.
Babaloo strolled into the kitchen, nose twitching.
“I take it hunting wasn’t very good today.” Bannon unwrapped the salmon, cut off a piece, and tossed it in the cat’s food bowl.
The cat demolished his share in two gulps and licked his whiskers appreciatively when he was done.
Bannon grinned. “You were hungry.” He put a dollop of mayo for dipping on a paper plate, then cut the salmon steak in chunks. Cold protein. It would do. He didn’t feel like cooking. But he looked at the plate and added a few slices of tomato from a lidded container, for his health.
Taking a bowl from the cupboard, he filled it with ice and jammed three unopened bottles of beer in. It had been a long day; he was entitled.
Back in the living room, he cracked open beer one and set the bottle on the floor to guard against a spill. Next he separated the copied papers from the photos, then sat down and spread them out on the coffee table.
He skimmed.
The wistful quality of the little girl’s gaze pulled at him. She clung to her mother in a few shots and shyly peered out from the folds of her skirt in one. The only shot of Ann with her father showed Hugh Montgomery smiling affably into the camera, his hands thrust into the pockets of his expensive suit. He was standing a few feet away from his tiny daughter, who looked up at him. Her uncertain expression said a lot about that relationship.
Bannon put the photos down with a sigh, wanting to look at the drawing of Ann at age three again. Just as he reached for it, the phone rang.
Smiling when he saw the caller ID, he picked up the receiver. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
“How are you, RJ? It’s not like you to not call. Haven’t heard from you—”
He finished the sentence for her. “For a whole day.” He cracked open beer two and kicked back to relax.
His mother laughed. “Okay, I’m a worrywart. Sue me.”
“I don’t mind, Mom. Good to hear your voice.” He meant it. She was on her own since his father’s death and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. Which didn’t mean that Sheila Bannon didn’t drive him crazy now and then.
“Oh, RJ. So what are you doing?”
“Eating.” He waited for what he knew she would say. “Yes, leftovers. How did you know?”
“I just do. Are you alone?”
When the tiger-striped cat sauntered into the room, Bannon glanced his way. “Babaloo is keeping me company. That’s about it for excitement around here. I was thinking of watching the Discovery Channel with him. He loves nature documentaries.”
“That’s funny. He’s a good cat. You should get out more, though.”
“He’s fine company.”
“You know what I’m talking about, RJ. Find a girl, have fun again.”
“I did, as a matter of fact. Today. She seems nice. Her name is Erin. I’ll keep you posted.”
“What does she do?” Sheila Bannon just had to make sure that his dates didn’t make a living wrapped around a stripper’s pole.
“She’s an artist, mostly watercolors.”
His mother pondered that. “Oh. Well, that’s nice. Not much money in it, though.”
“I didn’t ask for her tax returns,” he said dryly. “Like I said, I just met her.”
“It’s a start. You can’t live alone forever.”
“I don’t plan to, Mom. But Gina isn’t coming back unless there’s a big fat diamond in it for her.”
“How do you know that?”
“I told you that story. Not very romantic. She let me know how many goddamn carats she expected. Too many.”
He waited impatiently while his mother said something sympathetic, but not about him.
“I was flat on my back with a bullet in me, Mom, waiting for an insurance settlement—how was I supposed to pay for a rock like that and in a platinum setting? And from an expensive jewelry store in Washington, DC? You know it—where the senators shop for the women they actually sleep with. Not their wives.” He stopped to take a breath. “Sorry. I’m ranting.”
“You never told me the name of the store.”
Was that ever a Mom thing to say. He couldn’t figure out why she would want to know, but he named it. “That was the beginning of the end, believe me. It’s been a year already, Mom. Can’t say I miss her.”
His mother was silent but not for long. “See what I mean? You’re getting grumpy.”
“No, I’m not,” he said soothingly. “Look, I gotta go.” He said an affectionate good-bye before she got on his nerves and hung up with a promise to call the next day.
He had deliberately not mentioned anything to her about the favor he was doing for Doris on the Montgomery case. And he probably wouldn’t when he saw her this weekend either.
The Montgomery case. Drawing a deep breath, he reached for the top folder and flipped it open to begin his fact gathering. Kelly Johns would likely do her own, but Bannon wanted to be well-armed when he talked to her.
An hour later, he knew a lot more about Montgomery, none of it very good. Montgomery’s financial empire had been founded on what was left of the family fortune and bolstered with smart horse trading. Right now the guy was touting a shaky-looking hedge fund that amounted to selling shares of winning Thoroughbreds.
There were several offshore accounts in Caribbean countries and a few in Europe. A joke postcard from Switzerland showed a fat cat in pinstripes kissing a banker. It was blank on the back. Bannon figured that Montgomery had clipped it to his tax returns to amuse his accountant.
On it went
. Montgomery had never been investigated or indicted for financial misdeeds, but it didn’t take a forensic accountant to see that the man was wildly overextended, a polite term for being in a colossal amount of debt. He owed millions and seemed to be paying his debts off by borrowing millions more from people who were either naïve or plain greedy. That was going to catch up with him—and the luckless investors who didn’t do due diligence.
The tax analysis made for dry reading. Then Bannon noticed that the man treated himself to a generous charitable deduction every year for allowing the Wainsville historical society to give tours of the family mansion.
He could understand why the family had pulled up stakes; few would willingly stay in a house after a tragic kidnapping, especially once it was clear that the child was gone forever. Even so, deducting its use by a nonprofit was legal but didn’t smell right.
It struck him that Montgomery played every angle for his maximum benefit. Maybe the guy wasn’t as rich as the press clippings and Internet mentions made him out to be.
Sliding the financial reports back in the file, Bannon got up to take a break, feeling the mellow buzz of two longneck beers. The wrapped painting on the mantel caught his eye. He was ready to open it and see if he’d actually bought something good or been under the spell of the artist.
The brown paper was noisy when it came off. Babaloo opened an eye but not all the way.
“Disturbed your sleep, did I?”
When the paper dropped to the floor, Bannon pushed it against the wall with his foot. A search failed to locate a framer’s tag, and he concluded Erin had probably framed it herself. It looked professional, though. Maybe she’d learned how in her starving artist days, which he suspected were behind her.
He turned back to his laptop, touched a few buttons, and typed in Erin, horse, painting, Chincoteague. Bingo. She’d been in a group show out there. But still under just the one name. There was no link or contact info on her. With a defeated sigh, Bannon closed the lid and let his gaze wander over the watercolor.
It was as good as he remembered, better, even. Dramatic. And mysterious.
Chincoteague horses, huh? He’d never been to that part of the Maryland coast—he was more of a mountain man. Briefly he considered taking a trip there. It was still the off-season; the place wouldn’t be swarming with tourists. He’d bet anything her work would be exhibited at a gallery there. He ambled over to an armchair that faced the painting he’d bought and helped himself to beer three on the way.
Leaning back, Bannon supported his head on the muscle in his upper arm, trying to remember every single detail about Erin. Her face, her figure—he hadn’t really seen that, because the weather hadn’t been cooperating. But she had a lithe way of moving that let him know her body was good. He’d liked the warm pitch of her voice and her hesitation in talking about herself.
Bannon sipped his third beer and contemplated his next moves where she was concerned.
First you have to find her, he reminded himself cheerfully enough.
CHAPTER 3
Tired and sweaty from his three-mile run at dawn, Bannon walked the last hundred feet to his condo. The big tomcat waited for him at the door, sprawled across the mat, looking all smug and satisfied.
“Back from your midnight wanderings, I see.” Bannon dug the key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. “Who was she this time? The cute little calico on the next block or the fluffy white angora from Unit Nine?”
At the click of the lock, Babaloo rose and stretched with a muscled ease that Bannon envied greatly at that moment. He gave the door an inward push and the cat strolled through the opening ahead of him.
“Wise cat.” Bannon followed him inside. “It’s never smart to kiss and tell.”
Crossing the kitchen, he threw a glance at the clock and stripped off his damp sweatshirt. He paused in the living room long enough to turn on the television and switch to the local news. Kelly Johns smiled back at him, her brown eyes gleaming with intelligence, the curving sweep of her blond hair brushing the top of her shoulders. Her ever-so-subtle tan gave her a healthy-looking golden glow.
“We’ll be right back with Ron and his forecast for this week’s weather.” Her voice had a well-mouthed tone, pitched neither too low nor too high. In short, it was perfect for television, like everything else about her.
Bannon punched the Mute button and headed straight for the shower. By the time he shed the rest of his running clothes, the water was hot and he stepped under its pummeling jets, letting them beat the ache from his muscles.
After about five minutes under the invigorating spray, he felt half-human again, killed the jets and toweled himself mostly dry, then used a corner of the cloth to wipe off the moisture steaming the mirror. He ran a skimming glance over his own reflection, absently noting the dark brown hair, hazel eyes, strong chin, and the crooked line of his nose from a previous break. A razor made short work of the dark stubble shadowing his lean cheeks. Finished, he splashed on some after-shave lotion and winced at its sting, then headed into the bedroom.
He dressed less casually than usual for Kelly’s benefit, pairing jeans and a crisp striped shirt with a camel sports jacket. With his cell phone, wallet, keys, and loose change stuffed in various pockets, Bannon backtracked to the living room. He verified the local news was still on, switched off the television, and headed for the door.
Babaloo snaked outside first and trotted off. “No ‘have a great day,’ ‘good luck,’ nothing?” Bannon challenged as he locked the door behind him.
The tiger-striped cat spared him a look and issued an indifferent “Meow.”
“So glad you care,” Bannon murmured dryly and struck out for his car.
After reversing out of the parking slot, he pulled onto the street and took aim on the downtown area. The first of the morning rush had just started, filling the lanes without slowing speed yet.
His cell phone rang, drawing a half-smothered sigh of irritation from him. He slipped it from his pocket, noticed the caller ID was blocked, and flipped it open.
“Bannon,” he offered in clipped greeting.
“RJ, it’s Doris.” A car in the next lane honked impatiently at a less-than-alert driver slow to accelerate when the light turned green. “Where are you?”
“In traffic. Can’t you tell?”
“I wasn’t paying that much attention,” she admitted. “Where are you going? Do you have a minute?”
The anxious and slightly harried note in her voice warned Bannon that this conversation wasn’t likely to be a short one. He started looking for a place to pull over. With the traffic thickening, he didn’t want his attention divided.
“I was on my way to Kelly’s favorite espresso bar.”
“Do you have a meeting with her?”
“Not yet. . . .” He pulled into the lot of a combination gas station and quick mart.
“You mean you haven’t talked to her? I thought you’d call her last night.”
“What is this? The second degree?” Bannon challenged, then muttered, “You sound like my mother.”
“What did you say? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I was just saying that I was busy with other things last night.” Namely, the Montgomery files. “You obviously called me for a reason, Doris. What is it?”
“I—I’ve got a call coming in. Hang on. I have to take it.” For an eon of seconds he watched the vehicles rolling by on the street and waited until she came back on the line. “I’m back. Are you there?”
“Still here.”
“That was a friend of mine at the bank. Montgomery just filed the paperwork to have the monies held in trust for the reward revert to him.”
“A friend, you say. Can you get her to refund my bounced check fees?”
“No, she can’t, and I would never ask her. Now, be serious. We have something to talk about.”
Bannon stifled another sigh. “We’ve already been over this. Montgomery funded the trust. Therefore, he c
an dissolve it.”
“Even though his daughter was never officially declared dead?”
“I’m not a lawyer, so I don’t know whether it matters that he never petitioned the courts to have her declared dead. My gut says that it probably doesn’t.”
“But why is he doing it now, after all these years?”
“Well, from what I read last night, I got the impression Montgomery’s had some financial difficulties. At the least, a cash flow problem.” He checked his watch. “Look, I’d love to go into it with you, Doris, but if Kelly sticks to her usual pattern, she’ll be popping into the espresso bar sometime between ten and twenty after. I’d like to be there ahead of her, which only gives me ten minutes.”
“How can you be sure she’ll even go there?” Doris protested. “I know you’re trying to be subtle in your approach, but you could have done it all with a phone call.”
“Maybe so, but only an earth-shattering news story would stop Kelly from grabbing her morning jolt of java.” He shifted the car in reverse and glanced into the rearview mirror. “We’ll talk later.”
As Bannon started to lower the cell phone, Doris shouted, “Don’t hang up! I haven’t told you the most important thing.”
Something in her voice made him ask, “What’s that?”
“I found the master list for the files. The Montgomery evidence folder is gone.”
Bannon frowned. “But you said there wasn’t one.”
“RJ, I said there wasn’t any evidence to speak of. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a file for it. There was—I mean there is—and Hoebel signed it out. The question is, what’s in it?”
“I see what you’re getting at.” He nodded, considering this new wrinkle.
“Why would he do something like that, RJ?”
“How should I know?” A thought occurred to him. “Does Hoebel know Montgomery?”