“No cover. We’re just going to go in straight. PIs on the hunt.”
“Babe, maybe your instincts are misfiring today, but remember, there is a child involved. The grandmother is going to be suspicious if we flash the old picture around. We know that the kid’s dad was a soldier, so let’s play the Army benefit card. We’re insurance investigators looking for Bekka’s beneficiaries.”
PJ sighed.
“What?”
“I’m tired of always being someone else. Lying. It feels wrong. I’d just like to be me, asking the questions, helping someone find answers.”
Jeremy said nothing, just looked away from her, out the window.
Flora Layton rented a duplex right on Brooklyn Boulevard, facing the street, a nondescript brown house with a carved pumpkin on the stoop and a cheerful row of red chrysanthemums flanking the front step. A blue tricycle lay tipped on its side in the yard.
PJ rang the doorbell.
Jeremy had left his cap in the car and now ran his hand over his hair as if to groom it. Smiled.
He resembled a panther, grinning at his dinner.
“Let me do the talking,” she said.
A woman came to the door. Bone-thin, in a pair of khaki pants and a patterned sweatshirt, with bottle-black hair and saggy cheeks that stripped the youth from her face, she looked them over with suspicious, tired eyes. “I get my Christmas wreath from the Shop and Save,” she said through the door.
PJ grabbed on to Jeremy’s cover story. “We’re insurance investigators looking for the relatives of Bekka Layton.”
Something sparked in the woman’s eyes. “I’m her mother, Flora.”
“Can we come in?”
Flora nodded, although her gaze shot to Jeremy.
“Stop smiling,” PJ whispered as they followed Flora inside. “You’re scaring her.”
They’d entered through a time portal to the eighties: faded mauve carpet, a green and blue plaid sofa, a blue chair, and toys strewn across the family room. A small, round pine table separated the kitchen from the family room.
“I’m Jake Davis and this is Rose Parkins. We’re just finishing up our investigations for the death benefit from the Army,” Jeremy said smoothly.
Rose? She looked like a Rose? PJ smiled, stuck out her hand.
Flora shook it. “The Army? You mean they found Owen’s body?”
Jeremy shot PJ a look. “Yes . . . that’s right.”
“Finally. Only took the military four years.” She lowered herself onto the sofa chair. Sighed. “When he went MIA, I knew he was dead. Bekka refused to believe he was gone, right up to the end, said she knew he’d come back to her. But I knew he was into something dangerous.” Her eyes welled up, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “I kept telling Bekka that she should move on, not wait for him.”
“Did Bekka have someone else in her life?”
“Oh no, she adored Owen. I just thought the entire thing was so fast; they dated less than three months. Frankly, I didn’t trust him. Of course, he shipped out before I had a chance to really get to know him. It’s hard to know someone over the telephone.”
“You never met your daughter’s . . . uh . . . boyfriend?”
“Is that what he put on his forms? that they weren’t married?” Her eyes sparked. “I knew it was a line, his wanting her to keep her maiden name. Like there aren’t a hundred McManns in the phone book.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, they were married all right. A whirlwind romance. They met in a burn unit—he’d hurt his hands in a grease fire or something. Bekka was a nurse, you know. But he wooed her, and then suddenly they were getting married and moving to Minneapolis. I thought it was strange that he asked her to keep her name. For her own protection, he said. The man was paranoid. Wouldn’t even let her keep a picture of them in the house. Said he was afraid they’d bring the fight stateside.”
“Bring the fight stateside?” Jeremy didn’t spare PJ a glance. But she wanted to leap off the sofa and pump her fist into the air. Because, yes, she’d known he wasn’t a killer. That’s right. Another point for her stellar instincts.
“You know, because he was Special Forces. Maybe it was true. My house was broken into after Bekka’s funeral—they tore it apart as if they were looking for something. I had taken Tyler to visit relatives, and we came back . . .” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “I thought it was a fluke—dismissed it as being in a bad neighborhood. That’s why I moved. . . . But do you think it had something to do with Owen’s job?”
“I don’t know,” Jeremy said, but a quick look at him told PJ that Max had moved from former soldier to black ops operative in Jeremy’s head. Perfect.
PJ schooled her voice. “Do you have any pictures of Bekka and Owen’s wedding? I’m sure we have a marriage certificate on file, but it would help to verify their relationship.”
“The Army loses everything. I can’t believe it. It took you a month after Bekka died—two months after Owen went missing—to get his belongings to us. His last package didn’t show up until a month after she died either. And even that was nothing. ”
Jeremy had rid himself of the smile. “You’re right, ma’am, and we’re very sorry about that.”
Flora’s mouth tightened in a thin line of disgust.
PJ couldn’t look at the woman, sure her face would betray her. An eight-by-ten picture of the five-year-old, with his short curly brown hair, brown eyes, and a dimple on his pudgy cheek, hung on the wall next to a picture of Bekka.
The little boy had Max Smith written all over his cute little face.
“What was in the package?” PJ asked.
“A teddy bear. Just a cheap trinket he picked up in some airport, probably. But Tyler carries it everywhere, never sleeps without it.” She shifted in her seat. “I’ll try to find some pictures Bekka might have; they eloped, so I don’t have any of the wedding. And all her boxes are in my storage unit. I packed everything away when I moved. . . . It was just too difficult. But I could look.”
PJ dug into her bag for the picture of Bekka and Max they’d unearthed in the box of Lyle Fisher’s possessions. She handed it over. “We found this in Owen’s belongings. Can you identify the people in it for us? It’s just a formality.”
Flora took it. Her hands shook. “Well, that’s Bekka and Lyle. And his friend of course. I remember him from the funeral. His hair was much shorter then, but still so blond.”
“So Lyle is the one with the dark hair?”
“Of course.”
“We thought it might be Lyle; we just wanted to confirm,” Jeremy said, unfazed.
“Oh, that’s Lyle, for sure. Bekka told me how they went to Valleyfair together.” She pointed to the rides behind them. “Some photographer took their picture—you know, for money. Bekka sent for it later, after he left. And I recognize Lyle’s dimples. He did have such a nice smile.” She handed back the picture with a sigh. “Lyle visited Bekka for a couple weeks, maybe six months before she died. Tyler was about seven months old.”
“How did Bekka know Lyle?” PJ asked.
“Lyle was Owen’s cousin. He served with him, and Owen sent him home with gifts and letters for Bekka—sort of like proxy, I think.” She leaned in. “Personally, I think he was checking up on her, if you know what I mean.”
PJ took the picture again. Stared hard. If Max was Lyle Fisher, then who was Owen? Who exactly ended up in the lake, minus his memory, and emerged as Max Smith?
And who had been arrested as Lyle Fisher that night?
“Do you know the man with the blond hair? the one who came to the funeral?”
“Yes . . . he told me that if I ever needed anything, I could call him.” She stood and went to the kitchen, where she opened a drawer and fished around. PJ watched as she whisked a hand over her cheek. “Oh, I can’t find his number. But I remember he used to skydive at an airport around here. St. Cloud, or . . . oh, I can’t remember. He called himself a . . . sky bum.”
“
A sky bum?”
Jeremy leaned toward her. “Like a ski bum. Only instead of ski resorts, they hang around jump schools.”
“Do you remember this guy’s name?”
“Something like snow or breeze . . . Wait, I remember . . . chill. That’s it—Windchill.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Layton. It’s so good of you to take in Tyler.”
“Oh, I love my grandson. He’s my entire life. I just hope they get the man who killed Bekka.”
“Do the police have any leads?”
Flora’s eyes hardened. “No, but I do. I talked to her neighbor, and she told me it was that soldier with the nasty tattoo. I remember Bekka telling me to look out for him. Owen was always paranoid—even made Bekka scared. This soldier showed up a few hours before the fire and had a terrible fight with my Bekka, right there in the street. Bekka was scared, and she packed up Tyler and came right over. I told her not to go back, but she said she had to—that he was waiting. Of course he was waiting—to kill her!”
Everything emptied inside PJ as she listened to Flora’s story. “Did Bekka tell you the man’s name?”
Flora shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. Maybe that Windchill fella can help you.”
PJ stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Layton. If you find those pictures, could you give me a call?” She rattled off her number.
“You don’t have a card?” Flora wrote it down.
“Not today,” Jeremy said.
“You’re not with an insurance agency, are you?” Flora tacked the paper to the fridge, then turned and gave them a narrow-eyed look.
PJ put her hand on Jeremy’s arm, holding him in place. “No.” He frowned at her, but she ignored him. “But we’re better than insurance agents. We’re PIs and we’re going to find your daughter’s killer.”
A beat pulsed as Flora considered them, and Jeremy tried to incinerate PJ with a glare out of his peripheral vision.
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Flora came forward and took PJ’s hands in her own. “I just knew that God would send someone to uncover the truth. Thank you.” She pancaked PJ’s cheeks between her hands. “What’s your real name, honey?”
“Oh, I’m PJ Sugar. And this—” she patted Jeremy’s arm—“is my assistant, Jeremy Kane.”
* * *
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
Jeremy had stalked straight out to the car, to the driver’s side, and held out his hand.
Just this once, PJ dropped her keys into it and slid into the passenger seat. “I did, ever so much.” She leaned back, put on her sunglasses. “Okay, so what do we have?”
“A mess,” Jeremy said, working the gear into place and pulling away from the curb. “Who is this Max guy—Owen or Lyle?”
“Bekka’s mom says he’s Lyle . . . and I agree; the guy in the picture looked just like Max. But if Owen is Tyler’s dad . . . well, that little boy looks a lot like Max too.”
“She said Owen and Lyle were cousins—it could be a family resemblance. But what I want to know is how Max, as Lyle, could be getting arrested right around the same time that Max, formerly Owen, was washing up onshore. He can’t be in two places at the same time.”
PJ pulled on her seat belt. “I want to check out this Windchill guy, see if he knows anything about Max.”
“Over my cold, dead body. What if he was the guy that dumped Max off the Maximilian Bay Bridge? No way. Forget it. If anyone is checking him out, it’ll be me, thanks.”
“Now who has the vivid imagination? What’s he going to do—push me out of a plane?”
Jeremy glanced at her, his expression suggesting that very thought. “I’m getting a headache from the entire thing. I’m telling you, PJ, we should drop this case and run away.”
“Why?”
“It’s not going to be a pretty ending. I can feel it in my gut. Either Max killed this woman, or he was involved in some way. Maybe Bekka was even killed because of him. Any way it turns out, it’s going to destroy him.”
PJ shook her head. “I know Max is innocent, and if he is, he is going to want to know who did this.”
“No, he’s not! Trust me on this. Leave it, PJ.”
The thought nudged PJ that perhaps they weren’t talking about Max anymore.
They turned onto the freeway, on their way back to the city.
She schooled her voice, not looking at him. “What do you mean, Jeremy?”
He pulled a long breath, then another. Finally, “Knowing means you have to live with it. Live with your own imagination running like a movie in your head, including the sound track of her screams. You have to live with the anger like a hot coal—just like Max said—inside your chest. And you have to live with what you do about that.”
He didn’t look at her with those last words. Just inhaled, then reached out and turned on the stereo.
PJ listened for a moment before turning it off. “‘Do about that’?” she said softly.
“I’m just saying that sometimes not knowing is better, okay? You can forgive easier that way. You don’t have a face to put your hatred toward, and maybe, someday it dissipates. I wish . . .” He shook his head, something tortured in his expression.
Jeremy had known the identity of his fiancée’s killer. She could see it on his face as clearly as if he had tattooed it.
And just maybe, he’d let his hatred spiral in, take control. She touched his arm, and he sucked in a breath, as if, for a moment, he’d been someplace else, and her touch brought him back.
“What happened?” she asked.
He glanced at her, then shook his head again, quick, short.
Oh, Jeremy. She sighed, then leaned over and touched her forehead to his arm. “You can trust me, you know.”
He put his hand on her head, weaving his fingers into her hair. She barely heard him when he said, “You have no idea how much I want to believe that.”
She sat up. “You don’t have to be alone in this. I’m your fresh start, remember?”
“I remember. There are just some places I can’t take you.”
“Is that why you won’t let me in on your field trips?”
Oh, there went the poker face.
“Because my eyes do work, and I’m not blind to the fresh scrape on your chin. Is that where you went this morning after you left my house at the crack of dawn? taking out bad guys?”
Jeremy drove without speaking.
“You know, you could invite me along when you apprehend your dangerous bail skippers. I might learn something.”
“You’re not going to learn anything from these guys.”
“I was thinking I might learn something from you, Rocky. After all, you are the pro.”
A muscle pulsed in Jeremy’s jaw. “I don’t want you to learn this. I especially don’t want you to see it.”
There he went again, receding into the enigma of his dark side. And for a second there, she’d seen a glimmer of light. Don’t run, Jeremy!
“I’m not so easily spooked. You should know that by now.”
His breath rose and fell in his chest as he drove, all humor gone from his expression.
“If you want us to be partners, Jer—really partners—then you don’t get to make all the rules. You can’t just come out and play when you want to. It goes both ways. You’re going to have to learn to trust me.”
“I do trust you.”
“No, you trust me with what you want me to know. Not with all of you.”
“Why do you have to know it all? Isn’t what I give you enough?”
“Because it’s who you are—”
“No it’s not.” He turned to her, his eyes hot. “It’s the furthest thing from who I am.”
She could hear the sirens, the warning bells pinging, but his heat had ignited her own. “Maybe it’s not who you want to be, but it is you. We all have dark places, and the fact is, it’s part of the Jeremy package. I know it, and I’m not scared of it.”
He hit the brakes, shifting d
own a little too quickly as he took their exit from the highway. “Maybe you should be. Maybe you shouldn’t be so drawn to people like Max . . . and me. People who have a place inside them that is ugly, and . . .” He took a deep breath, blew it out. “Where can I drop you?”
“Are you serious? That’s it? Conversation over? Cha-ching, the wall goes up?”
“What do you want from me, a full confession? a list of my crimes?” He looked away from her as if hiding.
“No, I don’t need that.” In fact, suddenly she didn’t want that at all. “The last thing I want you to do is relive your pain. But I wouldn’t mind understanding why it’s so difficult for you to let me close, to let me know that shadowy part of you.”
“Because I don’t want you to see that part of me!” he roared. “There’s a reason I don’t talk about my life as a SEAL. I know that I’ll always be that man, but I don’t have to like it. And I especially don’t want you to know that man.”
PJ stared at him, at his reddened eyes, at his fast breathing, and she didn’t recognize him. The Jeremy she knew was full of teasing, controlled, always had an answer. Her Jeremy could make her laugh and turn her to liquid with a smile. This Jeremy appeared unraveled . . . broken, even.
And it made everything inside her shatter, tiny pieces of her heart embedding in her lungs, her soul. She couldn’t breathe without a spear of pain.
She took her hand off his arm. “I want to be your partner, Jer. But I can’t be unless you trust me. You say I make my own prison, that I call myself trouble to protect myself. But you do the same thing. You’ve separated yourself into two parts—the pretty part and the part you don’t think I can love.”
Jeremy’s hand whitened on the steering wheel.
“That’s why you don’t like Max, isn’t it? Because he reminds you of that part of yourself. And you’re furious with the thought of him not paying the consequences for his crimes.”
He refused to look at her, and her eyes burned. “By the way, you’re driving my car, so feel free to let yourself off anytime.” PJ looked away, wiping her cheeks, shaking.
They rode in silence all the way to the office, and when he finally pulled up, he left the motor running and got out, saying nothing as he slammed the door behind him.
Licensed for Trouble Page 19