by Louise Clark
Christy sat down. A waitress flew by. "Coffee?" she asked, dropping a menu on the table.
Christy nodded. The waitress disappeared. Christy pushed the menu aside. "You wanted to talk to me?"
Patterson nodded, sipped her coffee. Christy clasped her hands in front of her and pretended a calm she wasn't feeling.
Patterson held the mug for a minute more, watching Christy over the rim. Her look was assessing, narrow-eyed, and critical. Christy resisted the urge to tug at the lapels of her jacket. She learned long ago how not to squirm when she was nervous thanks to the worst of Frank's trustees, Samuel Macklin and Edward Bidwell. Never let them see you sweat, Frank had advised when Bidwell accused her of marrying Frank for his money and she'd started to cry. They'd still been close then, passionately in love and protective of each other.
Patterson put her cup on the lime-green tabletop, then rubbed her thumb over a scar that followed the line of her jaw. She was a tall woman, long-legged and lean. Somehow that made up for the wide mouth and full lips, made to smile, and the short, upturned nose that turned a pleasant face cute. When Christy had first met Detective Billie Patterson, two days after she'd last seen Frank, she'd underestimated the policewoman. Those big, brown eyes, the glossy brown hair, tied back in a French braid, said woman, not cop. Christy assumed the police department wasn't taking Frank's disappearance seriously.
It was only later that she realized she'd lucked out. Billie Patterson was smart. She was also curious. She questioned everything. Even more, she was stubborn. She didn't like puzzles with pieces that didn't fit. And Frank's disappearance didn't fit. Sure he was a drug addict and a playboy who was screwing around on his wife, but he came home every night, even if sometimes it was four in the morning before he reached his front door. His disappearance didn't fit his pattern, so Billie went to work asking questions.
The waitress plunked a mug of coffee on the table in front of Christy, then scooped up the menu with a sniff. Billie sighed and rubbed her scar again. "Mrs. Jamieson, has your husband contacted you recently?"
Six weeks ago Frank was seen in Mexico with a blond by the name of Brianne Lymbourn on his arm. The witness was a respectable man, the owner of an up-and-coming electronics company who knew Frank well enough for his identification to be considered credible. He hadn't spoken to Frank or Brianne—they had slipped away when he tried to greet them—but he was quite sure it had been them. With Frank's whereabouts confirmed, everything changed. He was no longer considered a missing person. Now he was wanted for questioning for the embezzlement of funds from the Jamieson Trust.
"No, he hasn't." Christy took a gulp of coffee, felt it burn through her, momentarily chasing away some of the cold the tension had caused. "Why?"
"I believe he will. When he does I would like you to get in touch with me."
This was not what Christy had expected. "Well, okay, but zero plus zero equals nothing."
Patterson fiddled with the cup, but she kept her assessing gaze on Christy. "You don't think he will attempt to contact you in any way?"
A memory of his promise that he would always look after her and Noelle added a painful edge to Christy's reply. "Frank's been gone three months. He hasn't phoned. He hasn't e-mailed. He hasn't written a letter. Frank may be living somewhere deep in the Mexican countryside, but things are not so different down there that he couldn't have sent me a message if he wanted to. No, Detective, I do not think he will contact me."
Patterson's eyes were steady on her. "What would you say if I told you he was back in Vancouver?"
Christy drew her breath in a quick hiss. "I'd want to know where he is so I could find out what the hell he's playing at."
"So would I," Patterson said. She sat back and drank her coffee, and watched Christy over the rim of her cup.
"You're not making any sense."
"Two days ago Mr. Jamieson arrived at the Vancouver Airport on a flight from Mexico City. He filled in a customs declaration, went through the primary customs checkpoint. There, a customs agent read his declaration, then asked him a few questions. The agent said he seemed nervous and his answers didn't ring true, so he coded Jamieson's card so the guard at the exit door would send him for a baggage search, but there was a huge crowd. A half-a-dozen jumbos arrived one after the other and there were line-ups halfway to the arrivals gates, passengers jostling other passengers, people getting annoyed. Somehow, Frank figured out his card didn't have the right coding and he managed to switch."
"How?"
Patterson played with her coffee cup, watching Christy in silence.
Trying to decide how much she can tell me. Evidently, Detective Patterson didn't quite trust her. She stared back, annoyed and amused and damned if she was going to accept the blame for Frank's misdeeds yet again.
A slow smile crept into Patterson's eyes and her mouth curved up into a rueful smile. "Customs wasn't particularly helpful. All they would tell me was that Frank had made it through and a German male, blond and about your husband's height, traveling on a flight that landed ten minutes before the Mexico City flight, was discovered to have Mr. Jamieson's declaration when he was sent for a baggage search. The German's declaration was later found with a stack of cards taken at the exit doors. A search was made for your husband, but he couldn't be found." For the first time Patterson showed annoyance. "He probably walked out the door and grabbed a cab into town."
None of this sounded like Frank. "How would he switch a customs declaration card without another person's knowledge?"
"The German had tucked his card into the outside pocket of a carry-on, which was slung over his shoulder. The baggage area was crowded. It would have been easy enough for Frank to slip the German's card out and stuff his own in its place."
Before Patterson had finished, Christy was shaking her head. "No. No, something is wrong. Frank doesn't necessarily think the law applies to him, but he's not a criminal. He doesn't know how to pick pockets. Nor is he the kind of guy who would victimize a stranger visiting from abroad."
Patterson watched her narrowly. "How well do you know your husband, Mrs. Jamieson?"
Chapter 4
Christy sighed, then sipped some coffee. "You've asked me that before, Detective. Before Frank disappeared, I would have said pretty well. Now I'm not so sure. Why would Frank be worried about a baggage search? Detective Patterson, he's rich. He's always been rich. He'd laugh off a few thousand dollars in customs charges, and how would he know that his luggage was likely to be searched anyway?"
Patterson rubbed her scar. "I wondered about that too, although I suppose it isn't that hard to tell. When I checked the air manifest I found he was traveling with a woman."
Christy looked up, jarred by the sympathetic note to the detective's voice. Billie Patterson thought Frank was cheating on her. Well, maybe he was. There hadn't been much to their marriage before Frank disappeared. She said carefully, "Brianne Lymbourn."
Patterson nodded. "I believe they compared codes once they were both through customs. Lymbourn may even have checked hers against other, innocent looking people, made an assumption that she'd received a green light code, then tipped off Mr. Jamieson. He then made sure he acquired a similar one."
Patterson paused. Christy said, "Brianne Lymbourn has slept with half the men in Frank's crowd. Not surprisingly, I don't know her very well, but she made no secret of her desire to marry money or her opinion that the bedroom was the way to reach her goal. Still, I don't believe that Frank is one of her lovers, Detective."
Billie Patterson sighed. "That's your right, Mrs. Jamieson."
Christy blushed. She knew the cop thought she was being blindly faithful to her husband. In fact, her assumption was based on Frank's loyalty to his daughter. Any relationship Frank formed would have to have Noelle as a central part, and he'd said more than once that he couldn't imagine Brianne being a step-mom to Noelle. "Okay, let's get back to the customs mess. You're telling me that Frank and Brianne are back in town."
Patterso
n nodded.
Christy picked up the cup to take a sip. She was surprised to find that her hands were shaking. "So now what? Do you arrest Frank for theft?"
The embezzlement of the liquid assets of the Jamieson Trust had come to light three weeks after Frank disappeared and the day before the sale of the mansion had been confirmed. Funds from both the embezzlement and the sale had been transferred into an account in Christy's name. The money had then been quickly wired to an overseas account in Indonesia, this time to an account in Frank's name. From there the money was sent to Brazil where it was deposited into the account of a numbered company. Since Brazil refused to identify the principals in the numbered company or to release bank account information, there the trail ended.
For a time Christy was implicated in the embezzlement, but there was enough ambiguity in the case for Patterson to question whether or not Christy was involved. With Frank on the run with another woman, she had become an abandoned wife, and her participation considered unlikely. Still, she was a suspect. She would always be a suspect until Frank was apprehended.
Billie rubbed the scar again, clearly uncomfortable. "At the present I only wish to speak to Mr. Jamieson to discuss his case."
Christy held the cup in both hands, just below her chin, and looked at the detective over it. "So what do you want from me? Are you're asking me to report to you if he comes home? Is that it?"
Billie took a deep breath. "Not quite. You will remember, Mrs. Jamieson, that initially we were looking for your husband because he was a missing person. Given the size of the Jamieson Trust there was a good possibility he had been kidnapped and would be held for ransom. Then it came out that his disappearance was the result of his own actions. Further, he'd diverted funds from the trust for his private use. Now that's embezzlement, Mrs. Jamieson, and embezzlement is a crime. But stealing money from his own trust fund could be considered a victimless crime by some people. Who gets hurt? Frank Jamieson mainly."
Outrage raced through Christy. "His daughter, for one! She's had to move from the only home she's ever known, change schools, find new friends..."
Patterson put her mug down on the table with a deliberate thump that cut through Christy's tirade. "She's got a mom who loves her, a clean house in a nice neighborhood, food to fill her belly, and a decent school where the teachers can concentrate on making sure the kids are learning, rather than surviving. She's doing pretty well, Mrs. Jamieson. Not having a few million bucks behind her isn't going to hurt her any."
Billie Patterson was undoubtedly right. Though Noelle complained about her teacher, she had begun to talk about one little girl in her class, and she was entranced at being able to walk to a neighbor's door, ring the bell, and ask a friend out to play instead of arranging a play date through a nanny or parent and being driven to another child's mansion. "Okay, Frank and his family are the only ones who see the result of his crime. What does that mean?"
Patterson drew circles on the tabletop with her mug. "It means that we would like to speak with him to ensure that he chose to leave the country and was not forced to do so by others. We will question him about his knowledge of the embezzlement of his trust fund, again to ensure that he was not being coerced by a third party. Then we will decide if laying charges is warranted. We would like to be able to close his case."
Christy gaped at her. Of all the things she had imagined she'd hear from Billie Patterson today, closing Frank's case was not one of them. Patterson drew more nervous circles on the tabletop, then caught herself and stilled the movement abruptly. She drank some coffee, then put the mug down with a thunk that spoke of finality. Bewildered, Christy said, "Frank may have returned to the area, but he hasn't contacted me. Who's seen him? Have you talked to any of the trustees? If he hasn't called me, surely he must have spoken to one of them?"
"I talked to Gerald Fisher, the chairman of the trust, and Edward Bidwell, the legal counsel. Neither had seen or heard from Mr. Jamieson."
"How about Brianne Lymbourn's friends? Have you talked to them?"
"Ms. Lymbourn's friends appear to be mainly male. A large number of them are aware she has returned to Vancouver. They have also heard that she's flush with cash and looking for fun." The derision in Billie Patterson's tone was clear. She thought Brianne Lymbourn was two-timing Frank and she didn't approve.
"Don't you think it's a little strange that Brianne is announcing her presence, but Frank isn't?"
"Yes, I do. I've spoken to Ms. Lymbourn, but she claims she's no longer with Frank."
"And you accepted that?"
"Look, Mrs. Jamieson, there's nothing further I can do." There was resentment in Patterson's voice. "The department is confident your husband was not the victim of a kidnapping. Further, he is no longer a missing person. Lymbourn checked into the hotel as a party of two, but since then she's been acting as if she's solo. People do split. That's probably what happened here. The department doesn't have the resources to waste on a case that's basically been solved. Frank Jamieson is back and what you do about it now is your problem. Sorry to be blunt, but that's how it is."
That's how it is. Sorry, lady, your husband is cheating on you with a woman who's cheating on him. Don't like it? Figure it out and deal with it. I'm not involved. "You want me to confirm your assumptions," Christy said slowly.
Patterson leaned forward. There was resignation and a certain lurking concern in her expression. "I want you to contact me if you hear anything, Mrs. Jamieson. Anything at all."
"Do you have an address for Brianne Lymbourn? She probably knows how to reach Frank. I'll start with her."
As if Billie Patterson realized how much that even tone and reasonable statement had cost Christy, she nodded without comment. She pulled a notebook from her pocket, quickly wrote an address. "She's registered at a third rate hotel downtown." She underlined the name of the hotel and frowned. "Unusual choice for a woman like that." She took a deep breath, then ripped the sheet from the book and handed it to Christy. "Start there."
* * *
As Christy walked back to her car she was largely oblivious to the rundown neighborhood around her. Instead, she was trying to puzzle through the information Patterson had just given her.
Frank's behavior didn't fit. Oh sure, it seemed to fit. The rich self-indulgent playboy straying from his marriage vows, using drugs, and doing whatever he needed to get the funds to pay for an expensive lifestyle.
That wasn't the Frank Christy knew, though. The Frank she knew was self-indulgent, sure, but he was also devoted to his daughter and he had a deep commitment to her well-being. And for Frank, the definition of well-being for a child meant that the child would be loved and cared for by two parents. It was a legacy from his own problematic childhood, and it was rooted deep within him.
She thought back to the last time she had seen him. The argument they'd had that night, and the promises he'd made, lingered in her mind and made her shake her head as she walked.
Patterson was wrong. Frank couldn't be back in Vancouver.
* * *
The final evening had begun as evenings always did in the last few years of their marriage, with getting Noelle to bed.
"Hey, kiddo, you've gotta do what Mommy says." Frank smiled as he hugged Noelle, but the smile was gone when he looked over his shoulder at Christy.
Christy ignored the annoyance on his face. Frank was as much a kid as Noelle was and, if allowed to get away with it, he'd play with her until she collapsed with exhaustion. The trouble was, Noelle faced a full day of school the next day. Though the child was only eight years old, academic expectations were high at the exclusive private school she attended. If she was tired, she wouldn't be able to keep up.
The annoyance disappeared from Frank's face as he once again focused on his daughter. He held out his hand. "Let's go upstairs, poppet. I'll put you to bed tonight."
"Will you read with me, Daddy?" Noelle asked, looking up at him with adoring eyes.
Frank pretended to consider this, al
though it was actually a done deal and they all knew it. "Depends what's on the reading list."
"Harry Potter," Noelle said. A perennial favorite.
Frank frowned, apparently considering.
Noelle giggled. She widened blue eyes the color of her father's and tilted her head to look up at him, spilling thick blond hair over her shoulders. "If you don't like Harry Potter, there are other books we could read."
Christy had to stifle a laugh. At eight, Noelle was already a conniving female, though still wrapped up in a little girl package. She understood how to manipulate the daddy she loved. Frank realized Noelle could twist him anyway she wanted, but he didn't care. He loved her with the same intensity she loved him. For Christy it was her husband's best characteristic, and the one that kept her in a marriage where love had dwindled into familiarity.
"Hm," Frank said, a serious expression on his golden boy features. "Let's discuss this when you're ready for bed. How's that?"
"Okay," Noelle said happily.
"Lights out in a half hour, guys."
"Aw, Mom!"
"It's a school night, Noelle. I'll be up in a half hour to say good night."
Noelle looked up at her father, making effective use of those lovely blue eyes of hers. "Daddy, do I have to?"
Frank looked down. Christy could tell he was torn. Though he knew Noelle wasn't above playing one parent off against the other to get her way, he would happily have read longer. Still, he never contradicted Christy in front of their daughter. It was one of the few parenting strategies they had talked out and agreed upon that they still carried through.
"You heard what Mommy said. A half hour is all we've got, kiddo. Come on, we'd better make the best of it."
They went off at a trot, Noelle giggling as they slid across the travertine marble tiles in the hallway and Frank hooting as he pretended that he'd nearly lost his balance on the slippery surface. Then they were charging up the broad, curving staircase to the second floor.