“Doesn’t mean I can’t pray for it.” Lauren dumped their cups and napkins in the trash container.
Kelly followed, depositing her plate in the plastic bin. And as they hugged and said good-bye, she couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be to spend the holiday with Cole. Even if that notion was ridiculously far-fetched.
Hands on hips, Kelly surveyed the two shelves in her father’s bedroom closet. Like the junk drawer in his bureau, they were a mess—a mélange of items piled in haphazard fashion. For a man who’d chosen a career based on precise numerical balances, who had arranged the tools on his workbench in the garage with the meticulous care of a surgeon, who’d carefully organized and labeled every photo in the family album, the disorder of these two storage areas was an anomaly.
Then again, everyone deserved a few quirks.
But she wasn’t looking forward to spending her post-church Sunday digging into the chaos.
Resigning herself to the task ahead, she positioned the stepladder half inside the closet, climbed to the second rung, and reached for an armload of stuff. As she pulled it out, a cloud of dust invaded her sinuses, and she sneezed. Five times. With each ah-choo, an item or two shook loose from the pile in her arms and fell to the carpet.
When at last her sneezing spurt subsided, she descended the ladder and lowered the collection in her arms to the floor beside the bed. Sitting back on her heels, she examined it in dismay. Tattered jerseys, a clear plastic box containing a dead flower that might have been a boutonniere, a file filled with itineraries from old trips, a tarnished silver money clip, and various loose pieces of paper and greeting cards.
Sheesh.
She’d never considered her father to be a pack rat, but she might have to revise her opinion.
Still, the junk drawer had yielded a potential treasure. Perhaps this eclectic collection would too.
Encouraged by that thought, she plunged in.
An hour later, as she pulled the last armful of stuff out of the closet, her hope had dimmed. Though she’d examined every single item, none had held any significance she could discern in relation to her father’s death. Maybe the phone number was all she was destined to find. And that could very well turn out to be a dead end.
She sifted through the final armload. It was just more of the same. At first, she’d hoped some of the documents or cards in her father’s hoard of treasures might yield some interesting information, but they’d meant nothing to her. A program from a theatrical production. The menu from a restaurant. A receipt from a B & B bearing the date of her parents’ anniversary. Birthday cards from her mother. All sentimental keepsakes, nothing more.
A folded sheet of stationery did catch her attention, and she picked it up. A skim of the handwritten text, dated sixteen years earlier, told her it was a letter, and she went back to read it more closely.
Dear J—I’ve allowed extra time for this to reach you, so I hope it arrives by your birthday. I wish I could be there to deliver my best wishes in person, but of course that’s impossible—and the finality of that weighs more heavily on me as time passes.
When you left so suddenly fifteen years ago, before we even had a chance to say good-bye, I knew things would never be the same again. But I didn’t realize so much of my past would disappear, for only you and I know the old stories and share the old memories. Your absence has left a gaping hole that will never be filled again.
But as I think of my own loss, it is yours I regret even more. For you gave up everything. I pray the loneliness and isolation of your early years have subsided, and that life has treated you kindly. I know K is a great comfort to you, and I thank God for her presence every day. I am sure she has become the fine young woman you portray in your letters.
I want you to know that not a day passes that I don’t think of you—but I understand and accept that you’re where you need to be. Happy birthday, J, and may the year ahead be filled with happiness and peace for you and K. You are both always in my thoughts and prayers.
The personal and heartfelt letter was signed with the initial P.
An initial that clearly represented a person who had been important in her father’s life.
An initial that was connected to no person Kelly had ever heard of.
Stymied, she leaned back against the side of her father’s bed, letter in hand. Why had her father never mentioned such an old and dear friend? Why could the two of them never meet again? Why had they parted so suddenly? What had her father given up? When had he been lonely and isolated? Was P a man or a woman?
Questions raced through her mind faster than she could form them, and she closed her eyes as a faint throb began to beat in her temples. Were there other disturbing items in this last pile of things from her father’s cache?
Her eagerness for new information now tempered by an ominous sense of dread—of danger, almost—Kelly gingerly sorted through the remaining items. Nothing else odd jumped out at her, but she did find a faded photograph she’d never seen before, of her mother and father on their wedding day. A snapshot, rather than an official photo like the one on her dad’s chest of drawers. This one showed the smiling couple lifting champagne glasses toward each other in a toast, the love in their eyes so achingly sweet it tightened her throat.
Kelly cradled the image in her hands, soaking up the unexpected glimpse into this moment of joy her parents had shared. Her mother’s face, alight with happiness, was framed by the wispy tulle of her veil, while her father gazed at her with the adoration every bride hoped to see on her husband’s face.
This final discovery might not solve any mysteries, but it was a wonderful memento that alone made all the hours of searching worthwhile.
As she reached up to put the photo on the bed with a few other sentimental treasures she’d set aside, handwriting on the back caught her eye. The script was unfamiliar and she flipped it over. In a flowing hand, someone had noted the date at the top. Below that was the word newlyweds followed by two names.
The date matched her parents’ wedding anniversary.
The names didn’t.
Jim and Lucille Walsh.
Right initials, wrong names. This was a photo of her parents, John and Linda Warren.
Had the photographer gone to two weddings at about the same time, perhaps, and written the wrong names on the back of this shot?
Or was this one more weird discovery to add to her growing list?
And if so, what did it mean?
Kelly hadn’t a clue.
But she was beginning to feel as if she’d stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone.
She picked up the mysterious letter from P and stood, a chill rippling through her. The silence in the empty house suddenly felt oppressive, and the need to hear a human voice, to share this latest discovery, drove her in search of her cell phone. She’d call Lauren—but her best friend would be equally flummoxed by the new information.
Cole’s measured, calming voice was the one she wanted to hear.
Kelly dug his card out of her purse. She’d never called his cell or tried to contact him when he was off duty, but she didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to pass on this news.
She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and tapped in his number, noting the tremble in her fingers. The strain of the past few weeks was finally getting to her, and her stress level wasn’t being helped by a growing sense of urgency that was disrupting her sleep. She was getting close to a breakthrough. She could feel it. And she had Cole to thank for prodding her to dig into the recesses of her father’s house.
The phone rang three times, and just as she expected it to roll to voice mail he picked up, his tone curt, his greeting clipped.
“Taylor.”
“Cole, it’s Kelly. Have I caught you at a bad time?”
“Kelly. Hi.” He sounded distracted, and she could hear the hum of other voices in the background. “I’m still caught up in that double homicide from Friday night. We’ve been at it nonstop. What can I d
o for you?”
The weariness in his voice told her he’d had little, if any, sleep in the past thirty-six hours. This wasn’t the time to pass on her new information. It had been buried in her father’s closet for years; it could wait another day or two.
“Look, why you don’t give me a call when things slow down a bit? I have something I’d like to discuss, but it can keep.”
“Are you sure?” In the background, she heard someone call his name, then his muffled—and annoyed—“I’ll be there in a minute” response.
“Yes. Go do your job. And get some rest.”
“Yeah. Like that’s gonna happen anytime soon.” Exhaustion hoarsened his words. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Whenever. Don’t make it hard on yourself.”
“Trust me. Talking to you is no hardship. I’ll be in touch.” The line went dead.
Smiling, she tapped the end button and dropped the phone back into her purse. Funny. A few minutes ago, the quiet in the house had been oppressive and isolating. Now, thanks to his parting comment, she no longer felt so alone.
And although she was anxious to pass on her news and hear his thoughts, she had a feeling she was going to sleep much better tonight.
9
Stifling a yawn, Cole reached for the disposable cup on his desk and took a swig of coffee. The six hours of sleep he’d logged when he’d fallen into bed fully clothed last night didn’t begin to make up for the dozen he’d lost over the weekend. The only positive news on this Monday morning was that he hadn’t been made case detective for the double homicide. That honor had fallen to Alan. And since they hadn’t yet come up with any decent answers, his colleague wasn’t likely to get a good night’s sleep for the foreseeable future.
Cole chugged some more of the lukewarm brew and tried to blink the bleariness out of his eyes. As soon as the caffeine kicked in, he’d give Kelly a call. In the meantime, he might as well plow through his emails.
Ten minutes later, in the midst of reading a mind-numbing missive on revisions to a departmental policy, Cole’s cell phone began to vibrate. Grateful for the reprieve, he pulled it off his belt—only to have his pulse kick up a notch when he saw that the Communications Bureau was on the other end of the line.
The policy memo forgotten, he swiveled away from the computer screen. Please—let this be a lead instead of a dead end.
“Taylor.”
“Detective Taylor, it’s Steve in Communications. You asked us to call your cell as soon as we had any information on that number you gave us Friday. We got lucky. It’s been out of service for more than ten years, and there was no single name assigned to it. But the phone company’s billing records indicate it was paid for by the U.S. Marshals Service.”
Cole stared at the wanted poster on the wall opposite his desk.
The U.S. Marshals Service?
Why would an accountant hide the number of a U.S. marshal in a secret compartment in his wallet?
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Detective?”
Cole blinked. Refocused. “No. That’s it for now. Thanks for tracking this down.”
Mulling over this new information, Cole took another swig of coffee, depressed the switch hook, and entered Kelly’s number. Now that he was awake, it was time to find out why she’d called yesterday—and share this latest development.
Kelly dabbed her brush into titanium white and swirled it in the permanent rose she’d squeezed onto her palette, attempting to match the hue of the dogwood blossoms in the photo she’d taken on one of her hikes last spring, now clipped to the edge of her easel.
But despite her prodigious effort to focus on this commission for the April issue of the Department of Conservation’s monthly magazine, her gaze kept straying to the curious items from her father’s house, arrayed on the worktable beside her.
His worn wallet with the secret compartment, and the yellowed slip of paper with the phone number that had been inside.
A letter from P.
The wedding photo of her parents, identified with unfamiliar names.
To borrow a phrase from Lewis Carroll, the whole situation was getting curioser and curioser. And she was feeling more and more like Alice, thrust into a strange world where nothing was as it seemed.
She’d tried googling the names on the back of the wedding photo, but after scrolling through close to a hundred hits, she’d given up. What was the point of searching when she had no idea what she was looking for?
Just as she leaned forward to stroke the pink paint onto the watercolor paper, the discordant ring of her cell phone intruded on the soothing Vivaldi emanating from her CD player. Her hand jerked, and she yanked it back from the textured surface. Another half inch and she’d have painted a pink diagonal squiggle on the fresh expanse, ruining an expensive sheet of the cold-press Italian vellum she favored.
After depositing the brush in a jar of water, she wiped her hands on a rag and picked up her cell phone. Cole’s number flashed on the display, triggering a lurch in her heart that was definitely not a delayed reaction to the startling ring of her phone.
“Hi, Cole.” She swiveled away from the blank paper, toward her worktable, a smile whispering at her lips. “I hope things have calmed down since yesterday.”
“Some. For me, anyway. Alan Carlson’s handling the case, so I’ll just be filling in where needed. Sorry I couldn’t talk when you called.”
“No problem. I found a couple of other things at my dad’s house that raised questions, and I wanted to see what you thought.”
“I have some news too. Communications couldn’t put a name to the number from your dad’s wallet, but they were able to find out who paid the bills. The U.S. Marshals Service.”
Kelly frowned. “Why would my dad be in contact with a marshal?”
“I don’t have an answer for that yet. What did you come up with?”
Still trying to process his news, she told him about the letter and the photo with the wrong names. “What do you make of that?”
Silence greeted her question—along with unsettling vibes. Her fingers tightened around the phone. “Cole?”
“Yeah. I’m here. Look, I’m toying with a theory, but I want to make a call before I jump to any conclusions.”
“You mean this scenario is making sense to you?”
“Maybe. But I could be way off base. Give me a little time to do some checking. If this pans out, though, we’ll have ample reason to officially reopen your dad’s case.”
“That’s encouraging news.” She picked up the wedding photo of her parents, trying to frame her next question diplomatically. “If you do, does that mean Detective Carlson will be back in charge?”
Another few seconds of silence ticked by. “In general, I’d say that would be protocol, but he’s tied up with the homicide now. Let me talk to our sergeant and see how he wants to handle this. It might not hurt to have some fresh eyes on the case, and if he agrees, I plan to volunteer. Unless you’d rather have someone else.”
“No.” Cole was who she wanted on the case—and in her life. “At this point, you know the history better than anyone.”
“Okay. Let me get back with you later today. And until we sort this out, be careful.”
With a promise to do so, she set the phone back on the worktable and stared at the blank sheet of paper clipped to her easel.
The more they uncovered, the more it seemed her father had had something to hide. But what? Had he been a spy? An undercover FBI agent? A CIA operative?
The whole notion was ludicrous.
Trying to put the riddle out of her mind, she remixed the dogwood-pink hue, swirled her brush in the paint, and leaned toward the paper to stroke on a bold arc of color. Slowly a cluster of flowers emerged, each sweep of the brush easing the tension in her shoulders. The act of creation soothed her. As did the mellow Vivaldi. But not enough to subdue the hum in her nerve endings, fueled by the sense they were on the brink of an important discovery.
; One that might at last establish the real cause of her father’s death.
Cole didn’t even put the phone down after Kelly broke the connection. The instant he had a dial tone, he punched in Jake’s number, crossing his fingers that his brother hadn’t been called out on a most-wanted arrest or some other mission with the Special Operations Group. He needed information on the marshals, and Jake was his best source.
When his older sibling answered on the second ring, Cole let out a relieved breath. “I need to run a theory by you and see if you can dig up some information for me.”
“Good morning to you too.”
At the wry amusement in Jake’s voice, Cole compressed his lips. He wasn’t in the mood for his brother’s humor today.
“Give me a break, okay? I worked a double homicide this weekend. All weekend. And my Monday’s starting off with more questions than answers. That’s why I called. I need your input.”
Cole gave him a rapid-fire download of all that had happened over the past month, beginning with Kelly’s first visit to the office. He concluded with the new information.
“So I did a little math. I added up the hidden phone number that belonged to a marshal, the letter from the person who was close to Warren but a stranger to Kelly, and the wrong names on the back of the wedding photo with initials that happen to match those of Kelly’s parents. I came up with WitSec.”
Dead silence greeted his statement. No surprise there. The Witness Security program was an off-limits topic for marshals. Not long ago Jake had mentioned one deputy who’d gone to jail for merely paging through a WitSec folder.
“Look, I’m not asking for any inside information, Jake.”
“Good. Because I don’t have any. Only the guys involved in WitSec know anything about it. That’s why they’ve never lost a witness who followed the rules. As for confirming whether Kelly’s father was being protected, it wouldn’t matter if I asked or you asked. We’d both get the same response—a form letter saying the marshals wouldn’t confirm or deny this person’s existence or their participation in the program.”
Lethal Legacy: A Novel (Guardians of Justice) Page 10