Buried Secrets

by Irene Hannon

  Lance dumped his duffel next to Finn’s. “You always were the peacekeeper.”

  “Somebody had to be, with two knuckleheads like you guys for brothers.” He pulled Lance into a bear hug, then did the same with Finn. “It’s great to see you both.”

  “Yeah.” Finn clapped him on the back. “Like old times, you know?” His voice grated, and he swallowed.

  “Real old. I can’t remember the last time the three of us were together.”

  “Christmas, eight years ago, London,” Lance supplied. “We all converged on Mom and Dad.”

  “That’s right.” Mac folded his arms. “How are they?”

  “Same as always. There’s no energy shortage in that house. They send their love, by the way.” He surveyed the couch, an end table empty except for a family photo, floor lamp, and treadmill in the living room. “You need to hire an interior decorator.”

  “I’ll get around to fixing the place up once I settle in. The sofa’s a queen sleeper, by the way—if you guys don’t mind sharing.”

  Finn shrugged. “I’ve bunked with worse. So is there any food in the place?”

  “Same old Finn. Always hungry.” Lance elbowed his brother and rolled his eyes.

  “A growing boy needs nourishment.”

  “I stocked up on sandwich stuff, chips, pretzels, and drinks yesterday. I take it you guys haven’t had lunch.”

  “Nope.” Finn headed for the kitchen. “I asked Lance to stop, but he said we should come straight here in case you had food for us.”

  Finn disappeared, and a moment later the sounds of drawers sliding and a fridge opening echoed through the apartment.

  “Make yourself at home.” As Mac called the wry comment to Finn, he smiled at Lance. “Some things never change.”

  “Yeah.” Lance threw him a quick glance. Then, instead of coming back with some sarcastic remark, he knelt down and busied himself with a clasp on the duffel.

  Not his usual style.

  “Hey . . .” Mac rested his hand on Lance’s shoulder.

  Lance hesitated. Looked up.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Sure. Everything’s good. You worry too much, you know?”

  “The lot of the oldest brother.”

  “Well, save your worry for the youngest McGregor. He needs it more than I do.”

  “Meaning?”

  At Mac’s frown, Lance stood and raked his fingers through his hair. “Meaning nothing. Seriously, Mac—stop reading so much into everything. I’ve got things under control; Finn is . . . Finn. He takes too many chances, like always.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “No more than you did when you were a SEAL.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel a whole lot better.”

  Lance punched him in the arm, one corner of his mouth hitching up. “Look at it this way. I’m as careful as you are, and you survived just fine.”

  He almost hadn’t—but only Lisa knew that story.

  Strange that he’d tell her but leave his family in the dark.

  “You did survive just fine, didn’t you?”

  At Lance’s too-sharp question, he switched gears. “Better than fine. I have a great job in a new city, and I rarely have to worry about dodging bullets.”

  “There’s only one thing missing from that picture-perfect life.”

  “What?”

  “A girl.”

  “I’ll get around to that one of these days.”

  “You’re thirty-five, Mac.”

  Like he needed to be reminded.

  “You’re thirty-three.” Offense was always better than defense in discussions with his brothers.

  Instead of the smart-aleck comeback he expected, Lance shrugged. “I can’t argue with that.”

  “Hey.” Finn stuck his head into the living room, one fist buried in a bag of chips. “Have you got any mustard?”

  “A whole jar.” Mac waved Lance toward the kitchen. “We better join the party or there won’t be anything left.”

  “I’m on it.” Lance jogged in the direction of the food.

  Mac followed more slowly.

  Was he imagining things, or was Finn more wired than usual? And why did Lance seem on edge?

  As he dived into the melee in the kitchen and they all resorted to their typical good-natured bantering and teasing, he doubted the opportunity would come up to deal with those questions today.

  But he had a whole week in close quarters with his younger brothers.

  And before they left, he’d get his answers.

  Glass of chardonnay in hand, Jessica opened the sliding door that led to the balcony of her condo and stepped out. At least the temperature had moderated during her trip to London. The evening was perfect—balmy and cooled by a gentle breeze.

  She strolled over to the railing, resting her elbows on the top as the lights of the city twinkled to life below her. She ought to reheat the gourmet dinner she’d picked up earlier . . . but she wasn’t hungry yet. Nor did she have to accommodate the needs of a husband or children—highly overrated commodities, even if Peterson-Bradshaw’s family-focused clients preferred to deal with companies whose executives favored traditional domestic situations.

  Corporate player that she was, however, she’d done her time on that score. Thank goodness those days were over and her life was her own again.

  Sipping the wine, she moved to a chaise lounge and pulled her cell out of the pocket of her capris. Not much chance Robert would call her today, but higher-ups always appreciated accessibility—though only he fell into that category these days.

  A clear sign all her hard work and sacrifices had paid off.

  Smiling, she sat on the side of the cushioned chaise. Of course, if an important client’s name popped up, she’d take the call—but that didn’t typically happen on Saturday nights . . . and almost never on Sunday.

  Funny.

  If she’d known Peterson-Bradshaw would morph into a magnet for Christian-based companies with strict, honor-the-Sabbath-type moral standards, she might have aligned herself with a different organization. But by the time that trend had become obvious, she’d invested too many years, built too much political capital in the firm, to switch alliances.

  Oh, well. In exchange for a lifestyle that met all the requirements she’d laid out decades ago, she could afford to restrict her moderate alcohol consumption to the privacy of her condo and attend an occasional church service.

  Setting the phone on the teak and glass table beside the lounge, she mulled over her plans for tomorrow. As long as she’d played all day today, it might be smart to swing by the office for an hour or two and leave a few things in Robert’s in-box. Her place as the heir apparent might be secure . . . but earning a few bonus points by logging some extra hours couldn’t hurt.

  Just as she started to swing her legs onto the chair, the jarring vibration of her cell intruded on the evening’s tranquility.

  Reining in her annoyance, she picked it up, checked caller ID—and muttered a word neither her clients nor her boss would approve of.

  Why was Erika calling? Hadn’t they agreed infrequent contact would be best? They’d just talked . . . when? Last month?

  But the woman had always been a loose cannon—more so since her husband’s indictment for fraud.

  Listening to another one of Erika’s sob stories was not on her agenda for the evening, however. Whatever crisis she was dealing with would have to wait a day or two.

  She let the phone roll to voice mail, picked up her wine, and took a measured sip. One glass a day, no matter the stresses that might tempt her to make an exception. That was her rule.

  And she never broke her rules.

  As the minutes ticked by, her pulse slowed and she closed her eyes. The muted sound of the traffic far below was calming, connecting her to the world without intruding.

  Distance was a good thing.

  And that was the very reason Erika’s calls were always jarring. Who wanted to be reminded of their p
ast—especially the one they shared? If Erika wasn’t always teetering on the brink of a meltdown, she’d have cut ties with her as she’d done with Joe.

  But Erika needed to be managed—and kept under control.

  The phone began to vibrate again, and her hand jerked, sloshing the wine.

  Once again she spat out a word she never uttered in public.

  Setting the glass on the table, she picked up the phone.

  Erika again.

  She waited until the phone stilled in her hand, then punched in her voice mail code. Better see what the twit wanted.

  “You have two messages. First message. Saturday, June 6, seven forty-five.”

  For a long moment, nothing but the sound of ragged breathing came over the line. At last Erika spoke. “Hey, Jess. It’s me. Erika. Look . . . I need to talk to you ASAP, okay? Something’s . . . happened. Something bad. Call me as soon as you get this.”

  A click signaled the end of the call.

  Jessica reached for her glass and took another sip of wine as she waited for the second message to kick in.

  “Saturday, June 6, eight ten.”

  “Jess, ish me again. You know . . . Erika. Call me, okay? Like right now. Ish really important. I’ll wait by the phone. Ish not just about me this time.”

  The line went dead.

  Great.

  The woman was getting seriously sloshed.

  So what else was new? She’d always gone overboard on alcohol when stressed. And if the news reports were to be believed, her husband was about to be convicted. Translation: big-time stress. She must want a shoulder to cry on, as usual.

  Except she’d said this wasn’t just about her.

  Or was that a ruse to expedite a callback?

  Frowning, Jessica tapped a freshly manicured fingernail on the arm of the chaise lounge, weighing the phone in her other hand. She could put the call off until tomorrow—but deferring issues never made them go away. It was always better to fix problems immediately, before they escalated.

  Annoyance muting the soothing effects of her wine, she scrolled through her directory and pressed autodial.

  Erika answered on the first ring. “Jess?”

  “I don’t use that nickname anymore, Erika.” She tightened her grip on the stem of her wine glass.

  “Sorry. I always forget.” A soft hiccup came over the line.

  “I noticed. What’s the problem?”

  “We have trouble.”

  “What do you mean, we?”

  “They found her.”

  A niggle of unease snaked down Jessica’s spine. “Her who?”

  “You know . . . her.”

  She set the wine glass on the table, holding it in place by the delicate stem until it stabilized. “Are you talking about who I think you’re talking about?”

  “Yes. Haven’t you been watching the news?”

  “I’ve been in London.”

  “I missed the first couple of stories too, with the trial and all.” She hiccupped again.

  “Erika—tell me exactly what you’ve heard.” She could google for info, but establishing any sort of traceable connection to this would be foolish.

  “Some construction guys found her. I guesh my parents’ neighbors shold the property for a subdivision.”

  Jessica rose and paced over to the railing. Paced back again.

  “Are you shtill there?”

  “Yes. Hang on a minute.”

  She stopped pacing and stood still, giving the analytical side of her brain a chance to engage.

  Okay, they’d found the body. So what? There couldn’t be much left except some bones. After all, the whole thing had happened twenty-four years ago. And there was nothing else in the grave to give the authorities a clue about the girl’s identity. She’d made sure of that.

  They were fine—as long as they stayed cool.

  “It’s not a problem, Erika. Trust me.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, what if—”

  “Erika.” She sharpened her tone as she cut the other woman off. “Chill. If you want to talk about this, we can meet for coffee. But it’s not a topic suitable for phone or email. Ever. Are we absolutely clear on that?”

  “Yes.” A soft sob came over the line.

  Erika might be giving her verbal assent, but in light of her shaky emotional state and inebriation, it wasn’t all that credible.

  Distasteful as it was, she’d have to do some damage control.

  “I’ll tell you what . . . let’s get together for coffee this week. You pick the day.”

  “I don’t know . . . I have to be in court for Jack’s trial. But after lishening to all the witnesses, I think he’s going to jail.” Her voice choked. “How could he do all that s-stuff? And how did I end up in the middle of it?”

  Because you were stupid enough to pick a jerk of a husband who sold bogus investments to gullible retirees—and the slimeball is getting exactly what he deserves.

  All true—but this might not be the best time to say it.

  “You’ll have a few free minutes, I’m sure. Why don’t you call me? I’ll rearrange my schedule to meet you.”

  “Thanks, Jess. I’m glad we’re friends.” The clink of ice came over the line.

  Friends?

  Not even close.

  Erika had never been more than a useful tool.

  But she’d finished being useful more than two decades ago. Once her doting state-senator father had connected his daughter’s best friend with people who could give her a leg up in the corporate world and pave the way for her rise to the executive ranks, Erika had been expendable. If they hadn’t been linked by a force far more potent and binding than the friendship Erika thought they shared, she’d have severed all ties with the needy woman on the other end of the line the day her father died.

  Secrets could create very odd . . . and unpleasant . . . alliances.

  “I’ll call you, okay?” Erika’s words were tear-laced.

  Jessica tamped down her annoyance—and impatience. “Fine. Use my cell number. And cut back on the booze.”

  “Why? Isht’s the only thing that makes me happy.”

  “You need to stay clearheaded until this dies down.”

  “I get depressed when I’m clearheaded. I feel better after a few scotches.”

  Understandable, given the mess she’d made of her life.

  “Go to bed, Erika. Sleep it off.” Reasoning with her tonight would be fruitless.

  “Should we tell Joe?”

  Her antennas went up. “You don’t keep in touch with him, do you? We agreed not to.”

  Silence.

  Not good.

  He and Erika had been an item back then; maybe they’d been keeping in touch all along.

  “Erika?”

  “I send him a card at Christmas.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Mostly.”

  Jessica tightened her grip on the phone. Another subject to discuss when they met. She might keep tabs on Joe’s whereabouts as a precautionary measure, might have his address in Paducah, Kentucky, tucked away in her mental file . . . but having her two companions from that fateful night talk was not wise—and she thought she’d convinced Erika of that.

  Apparently not.

  “Look . . . promise me you’ll keep your mouth shut until we meet. If you feel the need to talk about this before then, call me, not Joe. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Not convincing.

  “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I stop by your place tomorrow on my way home from the office?”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday, isn’t it? Why are you going to work?”

  Because that’s how people get ahead in the business world, you idiot.

  Despite the temptation to respond with sarcasm, she did her best to maintain an even tone. “There’s a lot to catch up on after being gone for a week.”

  “Oh. I guess. No, tomorrow’s bad. Jack won’t want any visitors, not with the trial winding down. I’ll ca
ll you when I have a free minute during the week.”

  Not ideal, but it would have to do.

  “Fine. In the meantime, zip it.”

  “Right.” The ice clinked in the glass again. “G’night, Jesh.”

  The line went dead.

  Jessica set the phone back on the table and picked up her glass of wine. Why couldn’t people be disciplined? Why did they feel the need to indulge in destructive behavior? Between her eating and drinking binges, not to mention her chain smoking, Erika was a mess. Overweight, bombed half the time, already exhibiting early signs of emphysema.

  What a wasted existence—even before adding in her marriage to that lowlife.

  Sipping her wine, Jessica tried all her usual tricks to restore her earlier placid, I’m-in-control mood.

  She took slow, deep breaths.

  She conjured up a mental image of her name on the brass plate beside the CEO’s office.

  She took a stroll through her private domain, stopping to admire the limited edition Ansel Adams print that complemented the monochromatic palette of her living room. Ran a hand over the smooth, enameled lava stone countertop in the kitchen. Trailed a finger down the line of the form-fitting Carolina Herrera cocktail dress in her closet, added to her wardrobe mere hours ago.

  But none of the typical stress-reducing techniques worked.

  Tossing back the last of her wine, she returned to the kitchen and set the empty glass beside the sink.

  Of all the bizarre things to happen after twenty-four years.

  Still, what she’d told Erika was true. There was nothing to tie them to the bones at that construction site. They might have been young and scared that night—well, Erika and Joe had been scared—but she’d thought through every contingency, had rehearsed her companions over the weekend until all their stories meshed perfectly. They’d covered their tracks, created alibis, and left no trace of their connection to the tragic disappearance of a fellow student.

  There was no reason for alarm—if they all stayed the course and didn’t panic.

  But therein lay the problem.

  Erika couldn’t be trusted. Heavy drinking could lead to a loose tongue, which in turn could create a loose end—and loose ends were dangerous.

  They needed to be dealt with.

  The question was, how?

  7