Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel

by Irene Hannon

  The attached backup material indicated Nikki had done a search of several local papers’ archives and run Ellen through the tracersinfo website. There was nothing in the woman’s background to arouse suspicions. Not even a traffic citation.

  He moved on to the doctor’s father. Alan Blaine’s cover sheet was a bit longer. All the same basic information, plus a list of awards and honors. He’d died at age fifty-six of complications from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Lou Gehrig’s disease.

  Not a pretty way to go.

  Nikki had found some old clippings about him too, and done a propriety database search as well. There was nothing to raise eyebrows in any of that material, either.

  The file on Let the Children Come was thicker, and as he flipped it open Nikki stuck her head in the door.

  “The trash pickups in the doctor’s neighborhood are on Monday and Thursday. Sorry I couldn’t come up with more on the wife and father.” She inclined her head toward the files in front of him. “They seem squeaky clean.”

  “There might not be any more to come up with.” Cal indicated the Let the Children Come folder. “Anything stand out in here?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to read through it. Dev corralled me about the files—and sweetened the deal with the promise of another latte.”

  The corner of Cal’s mouth ticked up. “Isn’t bribery illegal?”

  “Maybe. But it worked. Seriously, if you need me to do any more digging, yell. I wouldn’t mind being rescued from that disaster area he calls an office.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  As she disappeared, he focused on the file. Two pages in, he opened his pencil drawer and pulled out his highlighter.

  This one was a lot more interesting.

  Ellen Blaine paused at the door to the bedroom she’d once shared with her husband. As usual, it was fastidiously uncluttered. And, as usual, Ken had made the bed, the comforter and pillows arranged with military precision—even though Natalie would have to unmake it again to change the sheets.

  She looked away from the bed as she walked toward the closet, stifling a vague sense of regret . . . all that remained of the aching despair that had consumed her five years ago as Ken began slipping away. Her marriage was what it was, and nothing was going to change. The days were long gone when he’d spent more time tangling up the sheets than straightening them. When love had taken precedence over other obligations. When the problems of patients had been important but kept in perspective and left at the office. When children in a far-off country hadn’t consumed every last drop of her husband’s energy and attention.

  A twinge of guilt tweaked her conscience as that last thought flashed through her mind. How selfish was that? Those poor children in Guatemala needed all the help they could get. She should be lauding Ken for doing such commendable work, just as the governor had.

  But he got plenty of attention already from people who mattered. Who told him how important he was and praised his benevolence and fed his ego. He didn’t need her accolades.

  Or her love.

  She’d finally accepted that a year ago.

  Stepping into the closet, she looked around. As usual, Ken had lined up his dirty shirts at one end, on hangers. She shook her head. Nobody hung up dirty shirts—including Ken, until two years ago. He’d introduced the odd practice about the time she’d begun sleeping in the guest room.

  The hangers rattled in a discordant jangle as she began pulling off the shirts. The first night she’d slept alone, she’d given some lame excuse she’d long ago forgotten, hoping the gesture would send a wake-up call.

  It hadn’t worked.

  One night had stretched to two. Then three. Then a week. A month.

  She’d never returned.

  Nor had he asked her to.

  Last shirt in hand, she bunched them into a wad in her arms. Natalie would take care of this chore if she asked, but gathering up his shirts each week had been a ritual for all twenty-eight years of their marriage. It was hard to break long-entrenched habits.

  Harder still to walk away from a comfortable life that met all her material needs, if not her emotional ones.

  As she turned, one of the shirts slipped from her grasp and she bent to pick it up. The gleam of black patent leather caught her eye, and she leaned farther down. Why was one of Ken’s tuxedo shoes on the floor, in the back, rather than on its usual shelf beside its mate?

  Bundling the shirts into the crook of her left arm, she dropped to one knee, reached back for the shoe, and pulled it into the light.

  What in the world . . . ?

  Long, deep scratches marred the shiny leather on one side, and bits of dried mud were wedged into the area where the upper joined the sole.

  She stared at the damaged shoe. When had he last worn it? The Opera Theatre gala, perhaps? The one he’d committed to at the last minute and attended alone? It had been raining that night, which might account for the mud. But the scratches?

  “Mrs. Blaine? I am here.”

  As the housekeeper’s voice floated up from the first floor, she stood, shoe in hand.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute, Natalie.”

  Weighing the dress shoe in her hand, she debated what to do with it. Ken had to know it was damaged. So why hadn’t he had it repaired or replaced, in his usual fix-the-problem-immediately style?

  Then again, perhaps he had his reasons for doing nothing. Who knew these days? She’d long ago stopped trying to read him. Better to leave the shoe in a place where he could see it and be reminded, in case he’d forgotten about the damage.

  She set the shoe in a visible spot on the floor of the closet, closed the door, and left the bedroom without a backward look.

  Her feature story for next weekend’s edition wasn’t coming together.

  Moira huffed out a breath and rewrote the first sentence—again. Moved a quote near the end closer to the beginning. Fiddled with the wording in the conclusion.

  It shouldn’t be this hard to write an upbeat, feel-good article about a community garden.

  Unless you weren’t feeling all that upbeat—and it happened to be Friday the thirteenth. Not that she was superstitious.

  But the piece was due by 5:00. Less than two hours away.

  She had to focus.

  Thirty seconds later, as the strains of “Für Elise” wafted from her purse, she dug around for her cell and pressed the talk button without glancing at the digital display. The last thing she needed with a recalcitrant story and an impending deadline was interruptions. “Harrison.”

  “Moira? It’s Cal.”

  All thoughts of her deadline fled. “Hi.”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  Never.

  “No, not at all.”

  “I’ve got some news. Blaine’s alibi fell apart.”

  Her heart stuttered.

  Fingers gripped around the phone, she listened as he gave her a briefing on his phone call to the gala guest, processing the information as he spoke. “So he had time to get to my location by 8:30, which is about when the man appeared.”

  “That’s my conclusion. I also had Nikki run some background on his wife and father. Nothing of special interest, except the data did verify his father died young, of Lou Gehrig’s disease. But I want to follow up on a few things with his 501c3 organization. Dev and I are also going to raid Blaine’s trash on Monday night, and I’m planning to go through it Tuesday after work. It’s amazing how much you can learn about people from what they throw away.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Not a very appealing job, though. And you’re not even getting paid for this.”

  “Believe me, I’ve done messier things.”

  She didn’t doubt that, given his background. But doing a dirty chore like this gratis didn’t seem right.

  Frowning, she played with her mouse, watching the cursor bounce around her computer screen as she toyed with an idea. “Look, since I can’t pay you, and this case has already taken up a l
ot of your time . . . could you use an extra pair of hands with the trash?”

  A chuckle came over the line. “Believe it or not, I was going to ask if you’d be interested in helping. With your background, I doubt you’d miss anything important, and two sets of eyes will speed up the job. I didn’t expect you to volunteer, though.”

  “I’ve done my share of messy stuff too.”

  “Yeah, I know.” All levity vanished from his voice.

  He was thinking about the scar on her arm. She was certain of it. But she’d put that incident behind her, and she didn’t want to dwell on it again. Nor did she want him dwelling on it.

  “If I pencil you in for Tuesday night, will you provide the rubber gloves and nose plugs?” She lightened her tone, hoping to tease away his serious mood.

  It worked. She could hear a hint of laughter in his voice when he responded. “Count on the gloves. And wear old clothes. We’ll do this in my garage. If you have a pen handy, I’ll give you the address.”

  “Got one.” She leaned across her desk and snagged it, then jotted the information as he recited it.

  “If I learn anything more between now and then on Blaine’s organization, I’ll give you a call. Otherwise, see you Tuesday.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  As Moira depressed the off button and dropped the phone back into her purse, she suddenly felt a whole lot more cheerful—despite her looming deadline. In three days she’d see Cal again. Amazing how that thought brightened her world.

  Shaking her head, Moira repositioned herself in front of the computer screen. Better not to share that reaction with Linda, who’d already decided she was smitten.

  Because looking forward to going through someone’s trash just to spend time with a guy was about as smitten as you could get.

  9

  Cal adjusted his tie, picked up his small portfolio, and slid out of the Explorer he’d borrowed from Dev. As he hit the auto locks, he studied the brick structure before him. Faith Community Christian Church was just as it looked on its website—modest in size, older but well maintained, tucked at the end of a small business district in a tree-lined residential suburb that was quiet on this Monday afternoon.

  It was also the official address of Let the Children Come, as he’d discovered from the organization’s most recent annual registration report on file with the Missouri Secretary of State’s office. That document had included other interesting information too. The vice president of Let the Children Come—and one of its three board members—was the pastor of this church, Reverend Dennis Anderson. Blaine was both president and a board member. The organization’s secretary—and final board member—was Marge Lewis, who happened to be Faith Community Christian’s secretary as well, according to the church’s website.

  She was the reason for his visit.

  Cal bypassed the main door of the church and crossed to the small annex with the discreet “church offices” sign beside the door. Hand on the knob, he checked the street in front. A white utility van sporting a carpet cleaning sign on the side was approaching the parking lot, Dev at the wheel.

  Right on schedule.

  As Cal opened the door and stepped inside, a woman with cropped gray hair looked up from her desk. “Good morning.”

  Adopting a confused expression, Cal gave her a puzzled smile. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was looking for Let the Children Come. Did I copy the address on the website wrong?”

  She smiled. “No. This is the mailing address. It’s a very small organization. I’m actually the secretary, Marge Lewis. How can I help you?”

  He shut the door behind him. “I saw the news coverage about Dr. Blaine’s recent award and was very impressed with him and the work of his organization. I’m considering making a sizable donation, but I always check out an organization’s finances before contributing. So many charities these days devote far too large a percentage of donations to fund-raising.”

  “Isn’t that the truth? But I can assure you we spend virtually nothing on fund-raising. Dr. Blaine would rather the money go to the children.”

  “An admirable attitude.”

  “I agree. Dr. Blaine himself makes frequent and substantial contributions. In fact, up until about five years ago, he alone supported the clinic. Such a generous man.” She sighed and shook her head. “But the needs grew, and the clinic grew, and now we do look for other donors. Most of them find us because of the publicity Dr. Blaine generates for the organization.”

  “Like me.” He gave her his most winning smile.

  She smiled back. “Yes. So what can I do to help convince you to contribute? Pastor Anderson is the vice president of the organization, and he’d vouch for it too. But he’s not in today.”

  Cal already knew that, thanks to Nikki’s earlier call to the office, when she’d asked for the man. And Connor’s follow-up visit, on the pretense of needing directions to a nearby café, had confirmed that Marge was the sole occupant of the small office. Great teamwork like that reminded him yet again why he was glad he hadn’t decided to go it alone as a PI.

  He rested his portfolio on the edge of her desk. “I’d like to see a copy of your annual financial report for the past three years. I checked the website, but they weren’t posted there.”

  “No. Our site is very simple, in keeping with our operating philosophy. Dr. Blaine funnels all the money to the clinic rather than to glitzy graphics—or fancy annual reports, like big companies have. But I’d be happy to make you copies of our IRS 990 form. It’s public record anyway. Would that be sufficient?”

  “Perfect.”

  She pushed her chair back, crossed to the file cabinet against the far wall, and riffled through the middle drawer.

  “Our fiscal year ended April 30, so this is very up-to-the-minute. It’s not due for weeks yet, but Dr. Blaine always likes to take care of everything immediately, and he keeps excellent records. I’ll copy the three most recent reports for you. It won’t take long. They’re less than a dozen pages each.”

  As she moved to the copy machine, Cal set his portfolio on the floor beside him and pulled out his BlackBerry. “I hope I’m not taking you away from your work.” While he pressed speed dial for Dev’s phone, he made a pretense of checking messages.

  “Not at all. Pastor Anderson won’t mind a bit. The church supports the clinic financially too—with a very modest contribution, I’m afraid. We’re not a wealthy congregation.” She put the first report in the feeder, pushed a button, and the machine started up.

  As the copies fed through, a knock sounded on the outside door.

  Marge looked over her shoulder with a frown. “I don’t know why people don’t just come in.” She bustled over to the door and opened it. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am.” Dev’s deferential voice carried into the office. “But does that white Impala in the parking lot happen to be your car?”

  “Yes.”

  Cal resisted the urge to smile. Of course it was. He’d tooled by the lot earlier and run the registrations for the two cars parked there at the time.

  “Well, I was turning around in the lot and I may have clipped your bumper. I checked, and I don’t see any damage, but I’d feel better if you’d take a look.”

  “Oh, dear.” Marge angled back to Cal. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

  “No problem. I have plenty of messages to return.” Cal held up his BlackBerry.

  The woman stepped out, and Dev winked at him over her head.

  The instant the door shut behind them, Cal pulled a notebook out of his pocket, rose, and strode to the copy machine. As he’d suspected, Marge had set aside the Schedule B paperwork, which listed the names and addresses of major contributors. Organizations weren’t obliged to share that form for donor confidentiality reasons, but the information could be helpful, depending on the direction this investigation took.

  There were only three major donors for the most recent fiscal year—the doctor himself for a fifty th
ousand dollar contribution, an Edward Mason for three hundred and fifty thousand, and a Clara Volk for four hundred thousand.

  For the prior year, there were also three benefactors—the doctor again and two others, totaling eight hundred and fifty thousand.

  The same was true for the year prior to that.

  He took a quick look at the total contributions line on the 990 forms. For all three years, it was just under nine hundred thousand.

  Meaning the organization had essentially relied on three major benefactors for the past three years.

  And not the same ones each year, except for the doctor.

  Interesting.

  Cal jotted down the names and addresses of the donors, returned to his seat, and once more speed dialed Dev.

  Four minutes later, Marge pushed back through the door. “Sorry about that.”

  “Is your car okay?” Cal sent her a solicitous glance as she moved back to the copy machine.

  “Not a scratch. But I give that young man high marks for being conscientious. A lot of people would drive away even if they did do damage.”

  She finished running the 990s through the copy machine, stapled them together, and handed them over.

  “I appreciate this.” He tucked them in his portfolio and stood. “So why is the organization headquartered here, anyway?” Cal kept his inflection casual. He already knew the answer, based on the item about Blaine’s recent award in the “Congregation News” part of the church’s website, but her reply would give him the opening to ask a few more questions.

  “Dr. Blaine is a longtime member of the church. Never misses a Sunday service, unless he’s on one of his trips down to the clinic. And he’s very involved in church activities too.”

  “Didn’t I read somewhere that he participates in your outreach program for the elderly?”

  “That’s right. For the past five years he’s made it a point to visit our nursing-home-bound members at least once a week. Sometimes more often. Not that he talks about it. The man is modesty incarnate. We could all learn from his example.”