My heart jumped. Was it Ty? Had he cancelled his New York trip? Had it just occurred to him that he should have invited me to go with him? Was he on his way here to sweep me off of my feet?
I yanked my phone from my pocket and read the name on the caller I.D. screen. I gasped aloud and my heart thudded against my ribcage.
Oh my God. Jack Bishop was calling.
Jack was a super-hot private detective. I met him last fall when I’d worked at the law firm of Pike Warner—long story. He still worked there doing investigations—all of which just had to be really cool—and also took some cases on the side.
He had gorgeous dark hair, deep blue eyes, and a fantastic build. We’ve traded favors—strictly professional, of course—for the past few months, helping each other out with investigations.
“I’m dealing with a pressing situation,” Jack said when I answered.
He spoke in his Barry White voice, the one that made my stomach feel hot and gooey, and my toes curl.
“Would you call this a problem?” I asked.
“A big one,” he said. “A very big one. I’d like to share it with you.”
I tried to say something, but I couldn’t seem to form a complete sentence.
“I need relief, Haley,” Jack said. “And you—only you—have the necessary, shall we say, unique abilities to relieve this pressing situation.”
Oh my God. I collapsed into the desk chair.
“Meet me tonight at eight,” Jack said. “Wear something short.”
Chapter 3
I didn’t wear something short.
Well, okay, it was kind of short—but it wasn’t my fault. My mother was a former beauty queen. Really. Though my chromosomal line up had somehow mismatched on her beauty, poise, and any-actual-talent genes, I’d inherited her long pageant legs. So skirts that were a normal length on most everybody else were super short on me.
I walked into the restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard where Jack had asked me to meet him at a little after eight o’clock. The place was decorated with dark wood, faux stone, and low, amber lighting like just about every other place these days. A restaurant was on the right with big windows that looked out onto the busy street. A bar was on the left.
The girl behind the hostess stand smiled when I walked up.
“I’m meeting someone,” I said.
“Jack?” she asked.
When I nodded, she looked like she might have been jealous. I couldn’t be sure, but I hoped so.
She led the way into the bar.
The place wasn’t exactly packed but lots of people sat on stools at the bar and at the tables surrounding it. There was no band playing or DJ bumping tunes.
I didn’t really know what to expect from my meeting with Jack tonight, although all sorts of scenarios had whipped around in my head—which was bad of me, I know, especially since my official boyfriend was out of town, but there it was. Yet never in my wildest dreams—and I’ve have some really crazy ones—did I expect to find Jack seated at a romantic corner table with another woman.
I figured her for late twenties. Ordinary looking—attractive, but ordinary. Tired, maybe. She had on minimal makeup. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and approximately ten days overdue for a fresh cut. She wore a simple white blouse over denim capris.
Jack looked hot—way hot—in jeans and a snug, green Henley shirt.
His head was leaned close to hers. She said something I couldn’t hear. Jack glanced at his watch, spoke to her, and patted her arm.
I wondered if I’d wasted my totally awesome outfit, a black look-at-my-legs skirt, a dark-haired-girls-get-noticed-in-red tank top, slightly slutty heels, and a beyond gorgeous Chanel satchel.
Only one way to find out.
“Hi,” I said, walking up.
Jack rose from his chair, but before he could say anything, the woman shot to her feet.
“Haley?” she asked, looking at me as if I were some long lost relative.
I glanced at Jack, then said, “Yeah, I’m Haley.”
She dashed around the table and threw her arms around me.
“Thank you. Thank you for coming,” she said, squeezing me. “Thank you.”
I hit Jack with a what-the-heck look and he pried her off of me.
“Let’s all sit down,” he said.
She drew back and I saw tears standing in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just a little emotional these days.”
“Haley, this is Brooke Stafford,” Jack said, as we all sat down.
The waitress appeared. Jack ordered another beer; the white wine in front of Brooke looked as if it hadn’t been touched.
“Just a soda,” I said, since I was driving.
“Brooke’s involved with a delicate situation,” Jack began. “It seems—”
“My in-laws kidnapped my daughter,” she blurted out.
I reeled back a little. “What?”
“They have her. They won’t give her back. They claim they don’t have her.” Brooke’s words came out in a frantic rush. Tears sprang from her eyes. “They say that if I don’t have her, then she must be dead. I must have killed her!”
“It’s okay,” Jack said softly.
He pulled her onto his shoulder and she buried her face against his neck. After a minute or so, she sat up again and swiped at her tears.
“I’m sorry,” Brooke said, sniffing.
“Brooke’s husband died six months ago,” Jack said. “Chris Stafford.”
A jolt hit me.
“Oh, my God. You’re that Brooke Stafford?” I asked.
The Staffords lived in a mansion on Pasadena’s Orange Grove Boulevard that had been in their family for a couple of generations. I knew this because the social circle my parents traveled in often intersected that of the Staffords.
They were what my mother referred to as “old money,” which meant they were not only loaded but also connected to civic, social and business leaders. None of those ties, however, saved them from the ultimate heartache when in January of this year their son Chris—their only child—had been killed in a car crash.
“Sorry about your husband,” I said to Brooke
She dabbed at the corners of her eyes, then said, “So I guess you know what it was like with Chris’s parents.”
I only knew what I’d heard from my mom. She was a world class gossip. If talking smack about people was an Olympic event, she’d have the gold medal.
“I heard that you weren’t exactly what they had in mind for a daughter-in-law,” I said.
What I’d really heard was that Brooke came from a middle class—which, in the eyes of Alton and Sable Stafford really meant low class—family who worked at middle class jobs and lived in a middle class house in a middle class neighborhood.
That alone made Brooke unworthy of their son.
“Chris’s parents never accepted me,” Brooke said. “I didn’t want to come between them. I told him that. But, well, we loved each other. We got married. They refused to come to the ceremony. They were just awful about everything.”
Like most people with money and power, Alton and Sable were used to getting what they wanted, when they wanted it. No way would they have been happy with their son’s decision to marry Brooke.
“Then we had our daughter.” Brooke smiled and reached for her purse. “Want to see a picture?”
“Sure,” I said.
She pulled a photo from her wallet and passed it to me.
“She’s four now,” Brooke said, still smiling. “We named her ‘Hope,’ because, well, Chris and I hoped that after his parents saw her, they’d come around, be more accepting. We even bought a home—a really nice place in Culver City—with a guest house, thinking maybe they’d stay with us and spend more time with her.”
The little girl in the picture looked like one of those angels you see depicted on greeting cards. She had a halo of blonde curly hair, a pink bow mouth, and huge blue eyes.
“She
’s a cutie pie,” I said, handing the photo back to her.
Brooke stared down at the picture and her eyes filled with tears again.
“Put it away,” Jack said softly and patted her arm. “We’ll get her back.”
Brooke nodded and tucked the picture into her purse.
The waitress appeared with our drinks. She must have picked up on the tension at our table because she dropped them and left.
“So here’s where we are,” Jack said, shifting into business mode. “After Chris died, Brooke did the right thing. She contacted the Staffords, offered to let bygones be bygones, and asked if they wanted to see little Hope. They did. They started visiting each other regularly. It went well, so Brooke let Hope spend the night at their house a few times. No problem.”
“They then asked if they could keep her for a week,” Brooke said. “I told them no, at first. A whole week? Without my baby? She’s my life. My whole life. I couldn’t live without her for that long. I just couldn’t.”
“But you changed your mind?” I asked.
Anger swept over Brooke’s face, wiping away her anguish.
“I don’t know why I believed them,” she said, pounding her fist on the table. “But they’d been so nice—for months. They hadn’t said one harsh word against me. I thought they’d really changed, that losing Chris had made them see that family was important. They said I needed a break, so they insisted I go to a spa near San Francisco to relax and rejuvenate.”
I didn’t need binoculars to see where this was going.
“And when you got back, they wouldn’t give your daughter to you,” I said.
“They claim they don’t have her,” Brooke said, getting wild-eyed again. “It’s a lie! They have her! She’s in that house!”
Jack motioned with his hand for her to settle down and said to me, “The Staffords claim they don’t have the little girl. They told Brooke that if the child had been missing for a week and she hadn’t reported it to the police, then Brooke must have killed the kid. They’re threatening to report it to the cops.”
“But she has an alibi,” I pointed out. “The week at the spa.”
“Oh, they lied about that, too,” Brooke declared. “When I got there, they said I had no reservation. They couldn’t accommodate me. So I just bummed around San Francisco for a few days.”
“You still left a paper trail,” I said.
Jack shook his head. “The detectives could piece together her hotels and restaurants, but they can’t account for every single minute of every day and night. They could claim she did away with the child, then went up north to fabricate an alibi. They could say she took the child with her, did away with her up there. Even if Brooke could somehow avoid the charges, the damage would already be done.”
I could imagine the media storm. Brooke would be branded as the worst kind of child killer. Her name and photo would be splashed all over TV, newspapers, the Internet. The legal battle would take most of whatever money Chris had left her, and could drag on for months, years even. When—and if—the charges were finally dropped, life would never be the same for her.
In the meantime, the Staffords could use their considerable wealth and power to change Hope’s name, adopt her, and take her out of the country. Brooke would probably never see her daughter again.
“Are you sure she’s in their house?” I asked.
“Oh, she’s in there, all right,” Brooke said. “I know because they won’t let me in. I went there, and they’ve got some big ugly guy answering the door now. He won’t let me talk to Alton or Sable. He threatened to call the police if I didn’t leave.”
“The house and grounds are crawling with security guards,” Jack said. “I know the firm they work for. This all went into place the week Brooke was in San Francisco.”
I’d been inside the mansion the Staffords called home. It was three stories with dozens of rooms, surrounded by a couple acres of grounds. With a private security staff on duty, the place was as secure as Fort Knox.
Brooke planted her elbows on the table and buried her face in her palms.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Everything is going to be all right,” Jack said, slipping his arm around her shoulder. “You’re getting your little girl back. I guarantee it.”
Brooke looked up at him. I could see she wasn’t completely convinced it would happen, but I guess she wanted to hang on to the possibility because she nodded and managed a brave smile.
“Go home,” Jack said. “I’ll be in touch.”
She rose and said to me, “Thank you, Haley. Thank you so much.”
Jack walked her outside. I watched through the window as he waited with her until the valet brought her car, a black BMW SUV that was a couple of years old. He kissed her cheek, put her inside, and watched until she drove away.
A moment later, he appeared at our table and sat down hard.
“Damn,” he muttered, dragging his fingers through the hair at his temples. “I hate cases involving kids.”
“Brooke’s in a real mess,” I said.
The waitress showed up again. Jack waved her off. He hadn’t touched his beer and I’d forgotten all about my soda.
“You’re sure about this?” I asked. “Sure she’s telling the truth?”
I hated to ask because I could tell Brooke wasn’t just another client. Jack was in deep on this one.
He didn’t look offended.
“Brooke and I go way back,” he said and shook his head. “No way would she hurt her little girl.”
That was good enough for me.
“If she goes to the police and tells them her in-laws are holding her daughter, the Staffords will just deny it,” I said. “They’ll refuse to let the cops into their house to search.”
“No judge will issue a warrant,” Jack said. “Not without evidence. Not with somebody like Alton Stafford involved.”
“You’ve got a plan,” I said, because I knew he wouldn’t have asked me here if he didn’t.
“I’ve got a plan,” Jack said. “And it involves you.”
Oh my God. This was so fabulous. Jack and me on an investigation.
The vision flashed in my brain. The two of us dressed in black—I looked great in black. Maybe we could use night vision goggles and storm the house. No, wait. Maybe we could come in by helicopter and rappel onto the roof. I’ve always wanted to rappel down something.
“I need to keep this thing quiet,” Jack said.
Damn.
“I don’t want anything public,” Jack said. “I don’t want to push the Staffords into claiming Brooke killed the kid.”
That certainly made sense, but wouldn’t be near as much fun.
“All I need to do is prove the little girl is in the house,” Jack said. “Once I have that evidence, Alton Stafford won’t want publicity anymore than Brooke does. He’ll buckle. He’ll have to give the child back.”
“The place is swarming with security guards,” I said. “How are you going to get inside?”
Jack gave me a little grin.
“I’m walking through the front door,” he said.
Oh my God. Jack was so hot.
“So how do I fit in?” I asked.
“Alton and Sable Stafford are hosting a charity event in their home,” Jack said. “You’ve heard of it.”
I knew immediately what Jack was talking about. My mom was all over it every year. The event was a huge deal involving several committees—which was really just an excuse for everyone to get together, write off their lunches and gossip about whoever wasn’t at the table. It was staged every summer to—supposedly—raise money for charity. A different family hosted each year, giving everyone equal opportunity to show off their homes and attempt to make others jealous.
After all, what else did rich people have to do but put on parties for themselves so they could showcase their gowns and jewelry, and brag about their hedge funds, their trips and vacation homes,
their kids and accomplishments?
Mom dragged my dad to this thing every year. It was a major yawner. I’d gone in the past, along with my brother and sister, until I got old enough that I could get away with simply refusing to go anymore.
Since I’d learned years ago to tune out most everything Mom said—it’s a gift, really—I hadn’t known the charity event would take place at the Stafford home this year.
“Gutsy,” Jack said. “The Staffords having this party with the little girl right there in the house.”
“More like arrogant. No way the guests will know Hope is in the house. Three stories. A maze of rooms. Nobody will even get near the nursery,” I told him. “Besides, these events are scheduled years in advance. If the Staffords cancelled, it would send up a major red flag that something was wrong.”
Jack nodded. I could see he was thinking, mentally working out the details of some plan.
I got an icky feeling in my stomach.
“I don’t suppose this has anything to do with your asking me to wear something short tonight?” I asked, hoping against all hope that he’d say yes.
Jack gave my legs a quick glance.
“No,” he admitted.
I guess he just wanted to look at my legs—which was kind of flattering, of course—but the icky feeling in my stomach got ickier.
“I need you to get me into that party,” Jack said.
“Me? How?” I asked.
“I did some checking,” he said. “Guess who’s heading up the committee that’s coordinating the guest list.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Your mother.”
Oh, crap.
Chapter 4
“Thanks a lot, Haley,” somebody grumbled when I walked into the Holt’s break room the next morning.
“Yeah, thanks,” someone else groused.
I don’t think either of them meant it.
All the employees in line at the time clock stared at me. A couple frowned, others gave me all-out stink-eye.
What was going on? What did I do?
I stored my purse—an awesome Coach tote—in my locker and took a moment to visualize how fabulous my new Breathless satchel would look in there once I got it. Then I was forced back to reality—I hate it when that happens—and got in line with the other employees, all of us waiting for our last couple of minutes of freedom to tick by before we clocked-in and began our four hours of indentured servitude. I heard some whispers and saw several people glaring at me.
Slay Bells and Satchels (Haley Randolph Mystery Series) Page 3