Blinded

by Teyla Branton

  Shannon scowled, showing clearly his hatred of situations he couldn’t control, and I had to agree—nothing seemed to line up in this case. I gave him a smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell him anything—at least not until I get a full confession.”

  I was rewarded by a smile that left me tingling and wishing we were alone somewhere. I’d even eat that sticky pasta he was so fond of if we could put this day behind us.

  “Let’s look at that drawing again,” Paige said, pulling the sketchbook from under her arm, but her perusal was interrupted by Shannon’s new captain.

  Piante was a burly, fifty-something man with thick black hair shaved to a quarter-inch all around his head. He stood a foot taller than most of his men, and today his customary dark dress pants were topped by a button-down shirt a strange shade of puke green. “Tarragon’s attorney is here,” he said, glancing through the observation window at the Print Perfect guys before refocusing on Shannon and Paige. “Oh, and guess what, In Loving Memory just filed a complaint about you two.”

  Shannon grinned. “I’d say we’re getting closer then.”

  “Let’s just hope those prints on the George Washington bust come back with a positive match.” Piante nodded at me without exactly acknowledging my presence before striding down the hall in the direction of the bullpen. I knew I made him nervous—I made them all nervous—but he really liked Shannon and no one could deny that I helped put the bad guys behind bars.

  “A complaint?” I asked.

  Shannon laughed. “After you guys read the bust imprint, I called and let them know we were looking at murder charges. See if I could get them to make a move. Huang and his guys are keeping an eye on them for us.” His eyes skimmed my gloves before coming to rest on my face. “Well, our boy geniuses can cool their heels here a bit longer while we talk to Tarragon’s attorney.”

  “I can’t wait.” Paige’s voice was nearly a sneer. She opened Tawnia’s sketchbook and began to turn pages. “Maybe there’s something here we can use against them.”

  As we closed in on the other interrogation room where we’d left Tarragon, I could see a well-groomed, blond-haired, dark-suited man in his mid-thirties moving toward the door with a uniformed escort. My nerves hummed tautly as I studied him—good-looking, immaculate, and probably sporting a Harvard law degree.

  That Tarragon’s attorneys were the same people Claire Philpot’s husband used to work for might not be such a case-altering coincidence as I’d hoped. McGregor and Clancy were a prestigious firm, and it was only reasonable that someone as important and strongly backed as Tarragon would choose them for representation. Still, with all the other odd connections in this case, I hoped something more suspicious would emerge.

  In front of me, Paige’s step faltered abruptly as she uttered a tiny gasp. She turned on her heel. “Did your sister draw all of these this morning?”

  I looked over the sketchbook. “I think so. At least those right before and after the one with Winston. Why?”

  She pushed the book at me and the others crowded around to see what had disturbed her.

  For a moment I feared she was looking at the drawing of Easton Godfrey, and that perhaps he had a rap sheet as long as my arm, but she wasn’t looking at him or at the drawing of Winston and the mobster, but at a third picture Tawnia hadn’t mentioned to me. I leaned closer, seeing a man with either a very trim beard or several weeks of neglected growth. He was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, topped by another shirt that was slightly parted by a breeze, and was climbing stairs in the front of a building I didn’t recognize, one booted foot raised to take a step. His narrow, haggard face looked out at us, eyes intent and searching. Haunted.

  “Tawnia’s doing an ad for outdoor clothing. I—” I fell silent as a jolt of memory shot through me. The gray-patterned outer shirt . . . I’d seen that man the previous day, twice in fact—once at the estate sale and once outside my apartment, where he’d been only wearing the black T-shirt.

  “He’s been following me,” I said at the same time Paige said, “I know him.”

  “He has?” Paige asked me.

  “What?” Shannon looked at us both.

  Cody shook his head. “I’ve never seen him.”

  “Well?” Shannon nodded at me to go first.

  “He was in the attic at the estate sale, looking at the rug. And I thought I saw him outside my apartment last night when we found the door ajar.” I shook my head. “I knew he looked familiar, but he was turned away from me. Now I’m almost certain it was the same man from the sale.”

  Our gaze shifted to Paige, whose face had grown pale. “I didn’t see his face, but I remember the guy in the attic. I’d know him anywhere, though, even with the beard. Either he’s Bridger Philpot or his twin.”

  “Claire’s husband?” I said. “No way.”

  Three years he’d been dead of a heart attack. Three years his wife and two grown children had mourned him. I didn’t know if Claire would ever stop mourning him.

  “It can’t be him,” Paige continued. “I knew Bridger. He wouldn’t do something like this. Not to Claire. He adored her.”

  Yet it might explain the money missing from his account, the transfers not even his wife could explain. And maybe the money his employers claimed was missing as well.

  Shannon made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. “Maybe no one knew Bridger Philpot as well as they thought.”

  Chapter 16

  “We need to find out more about Bridger’s cases,” Paige said. “No way can I tell Claire about this. She has so much faith in him.”

  Cody grunted. “Could be he has an explanation.”

  “Not for this.” Paige’s voice was clipped.

  “Then maybe it ain’t him,” Cody said with a shrug. “I mean, he had a heart attack, didn’t you say? That would be kind of hard to fake, since you need a doctor to sign the death certificate.”

  I turned the page in Tawnia’s sketchbook, seeing with relief that there were no more surprises awaiting us.

  “The Philpots are connected, Bridger especially. Or he was.” Paige lifted her chin with determination. “If it is Bridger, I’m going to kill him myself.” Her eyes met mine briefly, and I knew her well enough to understand why she was so shaken. If Claire and Bridger, who’d been so much in love and so right for each other, had such serious secrets, how could Paige possibly think to have a successful relationship with a man? She’d been burned before.

  I put a hand on her arm. “Let’s give Bridger the benefit of the doubt until we catch up to him and see what he has to say.” The relationship my adoptive parents had shared was the major reason I dared to go ahead with Shannon. Well, that and because I believed deep down that Shannon would lay himself on a bed of hot tar and nails before he’d hurt me.

  He really would.

  My gaze flew to his—only to find him watching me. A connection opened up between us, a connection so deep and wide and meaningful that for a moment I couldn’t breathe. Maybe this was the real reason I’d always avoided looking into his eyes when I was dating Jake. Maybe this promise had always been there staring back at me.

  Shannon hesitated a moment, his mouth opening and then shutting again without utterance.

  I smiled, dipping my head slightly, and he nodded. Later, we would talk.

  When had I started reading him so well? When had he become an extension of myself?

  Cody and I hurried after Shannon to the observation window. “So,” Cody grunted as Shannon and Paige disappeared into the room with the attorney, “what was that? I bet they felt that electricity clear in Florida.”

  “That was none of your business, old man. Now be quiet so I can listen.”

  Chuckling, he turned to face the glass window.

  After a few niceties, everyone sat at the table and Shannon got down to business. “Your firm is suing Bridger Philpot’s estate for sums embezzled from your company. How much is missing and how do you know Philpot took it?”

  Th
e attorney blinked, apparently not expecting that line of questioning. “Are you here to interrogate us or our client?”

  “We believe this may be connected to our case,” Shannon said. “Philpot’s been dead three years and suddenly you decide to go after the funds? What gives?”

  “Actually, the timing was not our choice. The funds Bridger took weren’t from our company, but from one of our clients. We were about to confront Bridger when he died. We hoped to slowly reimburse the company ourselves by doing work without charge for them, but five million dollars is a rather hefty amount to work off. With the decline in the economy, we are now forced to seek reimbursement.”

  Five million dollars? Claire hadn’t mentioned the amount her husband had been charged with taking, but this made her concern even more understandable.

  “Ha,” Cody snarled. “Those leeches charge like five hundred bucks an hour. That would add up in no time.”

  Though I might share the sentiment, I was glad we were only observing through the glass, so he wasn’t heard. “You mean like the five hundred you told Hamilton I charge?” I couldn’t resist saying.

  He frowned. “It ain’t the same thing. She can afford it.”

  So, apparently, could anyone who chose McGregor and Clancy as their attorneys.

  Inside the room, Paige whistled. “Five million dollars. Who’s the client?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.” But the attorney’s eyes drifted to Mr. Tarragon before he dragged them back to the detectives.

  Next to me, Cody snorted. “Bet they love him during trials.”

  “So, he stole from you, Mr. Tarragon.” Shannon’s voice was bland, and I knew he was fishing for something more.

  “No one said anything about Mr. Tarragon,” the attorney blurted, his Harvard aplomb deserting him. “If you have any more questions, I insist that you take them to our senior partner. He—”

  Tarragon lifted a hand to silence him. “Yes, Bridger Philpot was my attorney, and he did steal from me.”

  “I’ll need to see those records,” Shannon said swiftly.

  “Why?” asked the attorney, recovering his composure. To Tarragon, he added, “Zander, you are not required to show them anything.”

  Shannon studied the attorney. “Mr. Tarragon had to show you some proof about the missing funds, I assume, and since our department has been asked by Claire Philpot to look into the claims, you know as well as I do that any judge is going to order you to turn over the records. You can’t sue someone without proof, so you might as well give us the information now. Save everyone time.”

  Mr. Tarragon stood up from the table. “You will not need the records because the case will be dropped.” He stared hard at his attorney.

  The younger man didn’t back down. “If you’re going to continue to require us to reimburse you, we need—”

  “I will come to an understanding with your partners. I assure you, they will be pleased.” Mr. Tarragon turned his gaze to Shannon and Paige. “Please tell Mrs. Philpot that the suit will be dropped and that I am sorry for her trouble. I liked her husband, and though he stole from me in the end, I did not relish the idea of seeing his widow punished. Now, if you have further questions, I would suggest asking them quickly. I have an appointment this afternoon that I cannot reschedule.”

  Paige jumped in with more questions, but when they seemed unlikely to shed more light on the case, I reverted to my own thoughts. Why had Tarragon made McGregor and Clancy drop the suit? He had to be hiding something because I couldn’t believe he’d do it out of the goodness of his heart. The attorney had already made it clear they weren’t willing to continue to work for free, so either Tarragon was hiding something big—perhaps the break-in at Hamilton’s lab?—or money was no longer a concern. Maybe that meant he’d caught up with Ralph Shatlock and planned to use him to create 3D printers.

  Or maybe he’d simply signed another investor.

  A vision of Russo filled my mind. Could the mobster be playing both sides, determined to get his weapon-building machines at any price?

  I sighed. My thoughts were going nowhere useful. Neither was the conversation with Tarragon. The more questions Paige asked, the more closemouthed Tarragon and his attorney became.

  Five million dollars. Had Bridger Philpot really taken the money? That would have made it possible for him to disappear in style. Except all of the money in the world couldn’t replace losing someone you loved. Maybe that’s why Bridger looked so haunted.

  If it was Bridger. I couldn’t forget the supposed heart attack.

  Easing away from the glass, I drew out my phone and made a call.

  Winston Drewmore picked up on the second ring. “Hi, it’s Autumn Rain,” I said.

  “Autumn, what a pleasure. I’m glad you called.”

  “Oh, have you heard from your cousin?”

  “Ralph? No, unfortunately. But I was still hoping to hear from you.” For a moment he sounded like an unsure teenager. “I mean, I know you’re going out with that cop, but there’s no reason we can’t be friends.”

  Okay, that wasn’t so subtle. Besides Jake, I’d never known a guy without a girlfriend who truly wanted to be good friends with a girl, and in the end Jake had wanted more too.

  “Look, I need to talk to you in person about your case.” I had, after all, been hired to find his cousin, though we didn’t really know if he was missing or hiding at this point. “Soon, if you can get away.”

  “I can leave now. I was just about to go out for a late lunch. Where do you want me to meet you?” His voice was all business now, which I told myself was a good thing.

  I was about to ask him to come down to the station, but Shannon and Paige were still going strong with Tarragon, and I knew they’d have more questions as well for the boy geniuses from Print Perfect. O’Donald, too, if they could catch up to him. Maybe I could help them with this last bit of business. In fact, Winston would likely tell me more if I talked to him alone. Well, alone and with whoever Russo had assigned to follow me. And Cody, because I doubted I could get rid of him.

  “Look, do you know where Smokey’s is?” It’d been several hours since lunch, and if what Easton had said was true, I’d experienced a lot of imprints at his office, and I needed nourishment. In fact, I was beginning to feel downright starved. The more I ate, the sooner I might recover my talent.

  Maybe.

  “That’s across from your shop, isn’t it?”

  He knew where I worked? For a moment the knowledge disturbed me until I remembered he and his cousin had tracked me down at my apartment. Of course they knew about Autumn’s Antiques. The store wasn’t a secret.

  “Can you meet me there now?”

  “How about in fifteen minutes?”

  “Great.” Fifteen minutes meant he wasn’t at his cousin’s in Lake Oswego. But was he still with O’Donald? It didn’t make any difference to me. I doubted O’Donald was even involved. It was beginning to look more and more like Bridger Philpot, or his lookalike, had something to do with just about everything.

  Even kidnapping me? The thought sent shudders through my body. I didn’t even know the man, and the idea that he was stalking me seemed ludicrous, but there it was.

  Poor Claire. If it was Philpot, how would she take learning her husband was a thief and a cheat, that he’d traded her and their family for five million dollars?

  Then again, what was he doing back here now instead of sipping mai tais on a beach somewhere? It was a question I couldn’t answer. Besides, I’d agreed with Paige to give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.

  “Cody, look at this.” I walked over to his side, pushing Tawnia’s sketchbook under his nose. “Remember the imprint on the safe? Could Bridger be the man you saw in the hallway?”

  Cody closed his eyes for a moment. “Can’t say for sure. His shirt was black, but I couldn’t see his face or the rest of him.”

  I’d bet a million people wore black every day in the United States. Of course not everyone was link
ed to Tarragon and my case. Or Hamilton’s missing brother.

  “He might have taken Ralph Shatlock,” I said.

  Cody rubbed his chin. “I didn’t get the sense that Shatlock was being taken, but it could have happened that way.”

  “Look, I’m going to meet Winston at Smokey’s. Tell Shannon, okay?”

  “Tell him yourself. I’m going with you.”

  “I’ll get more out of him alone.”

  “Maybe. But you might also get jumped again, and this time your boyfriend and that gun-happy partner of his won’t be around to shoot at the bad guys, and then you’ll go missing and your sister will never speak to me again, and I’ll spend the rest of my short life searching for you and likely end up in some foreign jail. I’ll die a lonely old man without ever holding my grandchild because she never had time to get used to me. Nope. I’m going.”

  Another of his ridiculous stories. Stubborn old man, I thought. At the same time I wondered if he was coming along because he felt he owed me, or because he’d really started to care. I was his daughter, true, but that didn’t mean anything, not after the past we’d shared. Or hadn’t shared.

  “A foreign jail. Really?” I said. “That’s the best you can come up with? What about skydiving in the Bermuda Triangle, swooping in just in time to save me from Davy Jones’s locker?”

  He only grunted, so I pulled out my phone again and texted Shannon, letting him know we were going to Smokey’s and then back to my shop. It was best leaving him to his job anyway. He’d think better without me hanging around, and Cody and I were next to useless with Tarragon, since his fastidiousness kept him from leaving imprints. I’d make more progress if I pinpointed O’Donald’s connection with Winston, even if it was to prove he wasn’t involved in the break-in at the lab.

  Outside the tall building that housed the Portland Police Bureau, I waved at Russo’s men in their black sedan. They averted their gazes so quickly, I almost laughed.

  My smile died when I spied a white van across the street half a block down. Tightness pulled in my chest. Hadn’t I seen it before? Or at least one similar? Rectangular, without a lot of slopes. Yesterday, I thought. When I was with Ace. If there were two men waiting inside, it would be more than a coincidence. I’d have to go back inside and tell Shannon.