Finding Jessica

by Parker Riggs

Water shot up Rose’s nose and into her mouth as they raced toward a craggy outcropping of rocks a few feet from the edge. Knowing it was her last chance, she reached out with her free arm and tried to brace for impact. The force of the water slammed her sideways into the rocks, almost knocking the breath out of her. Her shoulder flared in pain. She clawed and scraped at the rocks, tearing her fingernails, and finally managed to wedge her hand into a crevice and gain hold. Heidi was clinging desperately to her arm. “You said you loved him.”

  “He left me no choice,” Heidi yelled above the roar of the waterfall.

  He broke my heart, Chad had said about Bjorn. I didn’t want to. I had no choice.

  They were hanging on death’s doorway, but Heidi’s eyes were still angry, unrepentant. Rose wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold onto the rock or how she would get up onto it with Heidi clinging to her. The irony of that wasn’t lost on her.

  The decision came to Rose clearly. When she was an old woman she would think back on the moment with perfect lucidity, as though watching it in high definition film. She would never regret it. With a hard jerk she shot her elbow up and back, forcing Heidi to loosen her grip. Then she used all her force to push her into the raging water. Heidi screamed, but there was no one to hear. Her T-shirt ballooned out, and she seemed to lose muscle and nerve, her legs simply swayed behind her like two flesh-colored logs. The water swallowed her and then bobbed her up before it swallowed her again. Rose scrambled up the rock. Just when she knew she was safe, she saw Heidi’s body tumble over the side of the waterfall and disappear from the face of the earth.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Barrington swirled the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, studying the way the golden liquid danced in the sunlight. The color would look good as a backdrop on a canvas, a caramel-colored twilight sky, perhaps. He hadn’t realized how much he’d miss painting, had thought it would be nice to have a break from it over the summer. But when he painted, he was fire on wood, flames seemingly propelling his brush into a manic frenzy. He was a god, a creator. He wanted to get back to it, and now that he’d found Jessica, he didn’t have any reason to stay in Haven. He could hire Rose to look for his daughter and go back to New York to paint again.

  He dug his toes into the cool sand. Shadows from Rose’s house shaded the beach. It was nearly six o’clock, and he mentally patted himself on the back for waiting so late in the day to have a drink. He promised himself that when he did meet his daughter, as he hoped to someday, he wanted to be a father she could be proud of. He wouldn’t be a booze hound anymore.

  Down by the water Cosmo paced and growled at the ducks. He thought of texting Rose again to see if he should feed him. He was surprised that she hadn’t texted him back, considering what he’d been through. He took his phone out of his pocket. He hadn’t heard from Rose since Jess—or Heidi, he’d have to get used to calling her Heidi, although he’d prefer not to call her anything, ever again—had dropped him off in the middle of nowhere and then tried to run him over. Luckily he’d ducked into the woods and remembered his woodsman skills from Wyoming, the way to tell your direction in the dark by the stars rather than the shifting landmarks of the shadows and their trees. He’d found his way back to his car by sun-up.

  He pressed Rose’s contact info, but suddenly Cosmo stopped and stood frozen, his nose twitching, looking at the house. Then he took off running toward the front yard. Barrington heard what sounded like a car. Rising, he brushed the sand off his pants and headed up the beach. No more crazy women, he told himself. From now on he wanted sane, sweet women who wouldn’t steal his paintings and then try to kill him.

  Rose’s SUV was parked in the driveway. He was surprised to see Veronica Montrose behind the wheel and even more surprised when Rose got out on the passenger side, a white bandage wrapped around her left hand, her right arm in a sling. Her arms and face were scratched and bruised.

  “Jesus,” Barrington said, watching her walk gingerly around the car. “Rose, what happened to you?”

  “I’ve been out at Tibber’s Basin most of the day.” Her hair was disheveled, and her clothes were wrinkled in a way that made him think they hadn’t dried properly. He heard Veronica shut the engine off. Rose glanced at her and said quietly to Barrington, “I found Heidi’s body at the bottom of the basin this morning.”

  “Oh, God.” Barrington felt cold suddenly. He gripped his scotch glass as if that might hold him up. Rose touched his arm. Her hand was trembling, and something sad flickered in her green eyes. Barrington was astonished. Rose was a woman with stories she wouldn’t share, and she hid her feelings better than most men he knew. But in that brief moment, she took his breath away. She was asking for comfort. Walking forward, he pulled her close to him.

  “What happened?” he asked, his chin resting on top of her head.

  “The current almost got me.” Rose’s voice was muffled by his chest, and he could feel her body shaking. “I slipped.” Her voice was small, almost childlike. “I managed to haul myself out, but just barely.”

  Barrington watched Veronica head toward the house. He smoothed Rose’s hair. He’d never gotten this close to her and was surprised to find that her bones were as delicate as a bird’s, but her body was strong, solid. “Sounds like you got lucky, little lady.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Veronica on the porch steps, petting Cosmo, and he thought in that split second she looked just like Jessica.

  “Rocky says she committed suicide.”

  Barrington felt his legs go limp. He wasn’t sure anymore whether he was holding up Rose, or she was holding him. He saw Jess then, a bright, beautiful girl in Central Park on a Saturday in May, a red rose he’d bought from a sidewalk vendor tucked behind her ear, her long hair blowing across her high, strong cheekbones. He saw her late on a winter afternoon in that loft they’d rented in Soho where he’d painted her, how the slanted city light was honey-colored on her skin, and her fierce eyes held back an anger he could never understand. “Aaah, Jess,” he said.

  “And something else.” Rose stepped back and looked at him.

  Barrington wondered what else there could possibly be.

  Rose took his hand. “I found your daughter,” she said.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  A thousand miles away in New York City, Sandy Beach sat in his booth at Zu-Zu, holding Princess on his lap. Nicky slipped in across from him, his hair slicked back from his bony face. “I talked to Keyes this afternoon,” Beach said, pushing a menu toward Nicky. “Thorne’s driving Amber crazy, visiting her every day with presents, telling her about his mother. She’s close to breaking.” Nicky pushed the menu back as Sandy knew he would. It irritated Sandy that he never ate in public. It seemed Nicky never ate at all.

  “She threatened to start talking if we don’t get her out of there this afternoon,” he went on. A waitress in a tight red dress sashayed over and put a bottle of Templeton Rye on the table. Beach watched her pour it. Nothing was going right, and the whole goddamn pain-in-the-ass scheme in that shithole Haven was the problem. It had started as easy money, running paintings across the border, but he was starting to think it would be his undoing. “No one in that town suspected a thing until that Chandler woman started poking around.”

  Nicky’s beady eyes glared at Princess, draped over Beach’s arm, growling softly. “You want me to go in there and tell Amber what will happen if she opens her pretty little mouth?”

  Beach ran his thick fingers through Princess’s fur. “There’s no time for threats,” he said. “We gotta get her out of there before they pressure her to give something up.”

  “What about Chad Connor?” Nicky tapped his fingers on the table. Princess growled more loudly. “Is he talking?”

  Beach waved a hand at Nicky. “Connor can’t prove anything, and his money can’t be traced. Amber’s our weak link. If she starts talking, my attorney will be living fat for years, and I’ll end up behind bars.” Beach fingered Princess’s silky ears, which a
lways calmed him. “If we can’t get her outta there, we need someone inside the feds’ lockup that can do it, nice and quick.” It made him feel terrible to give the order, but he had to do it. He hoped Amber’s mother, God rest her soul, would forgive him. There went his plan to put Amber on his arm as the next Mrs. Beach.

  “He’d have to disappear after.” Nicky tapped his fingers on the table again, just to annoy Princess. She squirmed. Beach wished the two of them would learn to get along. Beach stroked Princess to calm her. “Riviera for a few years, maybe Bali,” Nicky said. “If he pulls this off, he’ll be hot.”

  Beach sipped his drink. “I’ve been thinking about expanding to Asia.”

  Nicky’s beady eyes reminded Beach of a rodent’s, black and empty, but he said, “I know how ya feel, boss, about the girl.”

  Beach sighed. “I shouldn’t have let her work in my office before I sent her to Haven. I trusted her with too much, too soon.” Princess looked up at Beach and licked his chin. “That Chandler woman started this whole mess.”

  Nicky leaned back in his chair, took a nail file out of his pocket and started at his thumbnail. “She’s an easy target,” he said.

  Sandy felt better. Easy target. He liked easy, and he’d been uneasy since Rose Chandler broke apart one of his best money schemes. Looking down at Princess, he smiled and then started to sing. “I’m a little teapot short and stout.” He held one of her paws. “Here is my handle,” and rubbed her nose, “here is my spout.” But before he could finish the rhyme or catch the look of disgust on Nicky’s face, he was interrupted by a loud commotion at the club’s entrance, and he turned his head to see what was happening.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  After changing into dry clothes Rose eased her aching body onto the cushioned chaise lounge on her deck. She was going to have to get used to her arm being in a sling. She looked at her bandaged hand. The skin on her palm had been shredded, three nails torn out. Her two cracked ribs and multiple soft tissue injuries would take months to heal. At least the trauma disguised what had really happened.

  She wasn’t proud of what she’d done to Heidi, but she felt a surety about it that she’d experienced at other rare moments in her life, and it came with no regret. The hardest part of the day had been lying to Rocky. She wasn’t sure if he believed her made-up story about slipping on the rocks and falling into the water, but he dutifully wrote down her version of events and told her that in his opinion, and from all appearances, Heidi had committed suicide. “It’s probably for the best,” he’d said. When he looked up at her, she’d seen sadness and a strange resignation cross his eyes. Then he’d shut his notebook. Case closed.

  When the New Hampshire Fish and Game Department’s rescue team called to say they’d retrieved Heidi’s body from the basin, Rose laid to rest the irrational fear that Heidi might have survived the fall and would rise from the mist, pointing a crooked finger at her and yelling, “Murderer!” Thinking about it made her feel tired, so tired she thought she might sleep right there in the chair for days.

  Behind her the French doors opened, and Barrington came out, carrying a bottle of Pepsi. “I’ll sign that cast and make it a million dollar piece,” he said.

  Rose closed her eyes. “You’re such an egomaniac.” She smiled through the pain in her back and the sharp shooting fire down her leg. First thing tomorrow morning, she would have to call her chiropractor. “Where’s Veronica?”

  “She’s feeding Cosmo.”

  Rose opened her eyes. Barrington’s hair looked as if a windstorm had torn it up, and though his Oxford shirt was probably Hugo Boss, it had a paint smudge on the collar, and he’d missed a buttonhole. Nevertheless, he looked different now that she knew he was a father, more substantial, more whole somehow. “Did she tell you?” she asked him.

  “Tell me what?” Barrington asked.

  Veronica was so shy, it could take her another lifetime to tell Barrington. “Ask her,” Rose said. “She has a surprise for you.” Then she leaned her head back, closed her eyes and was swallowed by darkness.

  Was that Barrington crying? Or maybe Cosmo whining, he was so hungry. No, she had asked Veronica to feed him. It had to be a man. Barrington, Barrington … I have to help him, I have to find Jessica. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were glued shut. From far away she thought she heard him say, “This is one of the saddest and happiest days of my life.” Then flashing pinpricks of light pierced the darkness. She was so cold. She shivered in the icy mountain water. It filled her mouth. The river was trying to drown her. She could hear the waterfall, the water hurling her toward the edge. Screaming, she reached for the rocks, but hands held her back, hands rocked her shoulders. She gasped for air.

  “What?” She sat up fast in the chaise and was hit by a wave of dizziness. Vaguely, she understood it was dark out, and the temperature had dropped. Cosmo was on her lap, Barrington was in the chair next to her, and Veronica was standing by her side.

  “You were having a bad dream,” Veronica said.

  “How long was I asleep?” Rose asked.

  “Couple hours,” Barrington told her.

  “My mouth is so dry,” Rose said. “I feel like I’ve eaten cotton balls.” She almost laughed. A moment ago she’d thought she was drowning in the river, and her mouth had been filled with water.

  Veronica poured her a glass of lemonade from a pitcher on the table. They both watched Rose drink it down. When she was done, she asked for more. After her third glass, she told them she felt better and apologized for keeping them so late.

  “We’re staying with you tonight,” Barrington said. “You’re in no condition to be alone.”

  Rose didn’t argue. Barrington was right. She wasn’t even sure she could get up off the chaise.

  “And we have something to celebrate.” He smiled, but his eyes were still surprised.

  Veronica was smiling, too. Her pale, almost translucent skin looked lit from the inside out, and her hair looked silky. She was no longer a wallflower. She was ethereal, like many of the women in Barrington’s paintings. Rose watched her glance shyly at Barrington, whose face was split apart by a smile. She was so happy for him and so happy for Veronica. At least something good had come out of this horrible day. “How does it feel?” Rose asked.

  “It feels great,” Barrington said, grinning up at Veronica. “So great, I want to smoke a cigar.”

  Chapter Forty

  “What’s going to happen to Princess?” Beach demanded as Thorne handcuffed him. He and Nicky and his four bodyguards were surrounded by at least a dozen feds. The fifth bodyguard, a muscle-bound dumb kid who’d never given Beach any trouble before, was standing at the door. He’d led the feds right to him. Beach considered him dead. He’d have him killed before the day was out. “She has a sensitive stomach, she can’t eat dog food, only steak and chicken,” he said to the fat woman in uniform, who was kneeling on the floor, trying to put Princess in the dog crate. They’d called New York City Animal Control as soon as Princess bit the first Bureau guy, and now Princess was snarling and squirming in her arms.

  Beach chewed his bottom lip. He couldn’t stand the thought of his precious girl behind bars. Nicky and the other bodyguards watched, standing in a row like victims of a firing squad, their hands cuffed behind their backs. Beach had ordered them to stand down as soon as he realized Zu-Zu was being raided. Far outnumbered, it hadn’t been worth the risk. The bartenders and wait staff were all watching from the bar, horrified.

  “Your dog will be taken to an animal shelter.” Thorne spoke loudly to be heard over Princess’s shrill barking. “We can call your wife and tell her where to pick her up.”

  “Delores hates Princess. Call my attorney and tell him to come get her.” That would make Keyes’s day, putting up bail for him, his crew and Princess.

  The Animal Control officer took a piece of cheese out of her pocket and dangled it under Princess’s nose. The little dog stopped struggling and sniffed it.

  “You know I
’ll be lawyered up and back in my office by tomorrow afternoon.” Beach smirked at Nicky, but Nicky’s face was surprisingly unanimated. He didn’t smirk back.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Thorne was a little man with a woman’s voice, and Sandy had hated him the first time he’d laid eyes on him. “We have a lot of evidence in this case and plenty of eyewitnesses.”

  “Sooner rather than later,” he glanced at Nicky, but The Knife just looked at the floor, and for the first time in his life as a crime lord, Sandy Beach felt a chill down his spine. “Hey, Nicky, don’t forget what we talked about.”

  “Shut up,” Thorne snapped. “No talking.”

  Nicky looked up, and his steel eyes glinted in recognition. Beach knew he’d gotten his message. Nicky’s phone call would go to his contact. Amber would be dead by morning. The stolen paintings were nothing compared to what she knew about his business. The girl had led the feds to Zu-Zu, and now she could ruin him, and he wouldn’t risk that. Just for fun, Beach thought, moving his wrists around in the handcuffs, he’d have that Chandler woman killed, too.

  “Ooh, aren’t you a sweetheart,” the woman cooed to Princess. “Just ‘cause your daddy’s a bad man doesn’t mean you are, poor little thing.” Princess took a chunk of the cheese she offered her, and when she did, she finally looked up at Beach. No words were necessary with his darling baby. Beach merely nodded once, and with lightning speed Princess bit down hard on the woman’s hand. She cried out in pain, and Princess squirmed out of her arms and ran past the dumb, almost dead bodyguard, out the open door.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “What do you think will happen to Table Talk without Heidi?” Veronica asked.

  They’d moved inside to the living room. Rose was propped up on her favorite chair, watching Barrington plow through a piece of chicken Veronica had grilled. Rose had no appetite and hadn’t touched her food, and now Cosmo was standing like a sentry by her feet, staring at her plate, hoping she’d give it to him. “I suppose it will be up for sale.” Her eyes shifted to Cameron’s painting above the fireplace. She wondered what would happen to the ones in Heidi’s apartment and if she could get them back. A wave of nausea hit her. She was going to have to get professional help to deal with Cameron’s murder and Hal’s. And Heidi’s, for that matter. She would call Bloomberg, the Agency’s shrink in Virginia, and ask him for a referral. “Maybe someone with a lot of money will buy Table Talk.” She glanced at Barrington.