by Irene Hannon
“True.” Cal fished his keys from his pocket, keeping his tone casual. “Is his wife active in the church too?”
Faint furrows appeared on the woman’s brow. “No. We haven’t seen Ellen in quite some time. I believe she attends a different church now. Nice woman, but very private.”
Marge was a font of information.
“Well, God calls us through many different doors.” Cal gestured toward his portfolio. “I’ll be back in touch after I review these documents.”
“I hope you’ll find everything satisfactory. Large contributions are our mainstay. Dr. Blaine donates a substantial sum each year, and we always seem to have another couple of generous donors. Without them, we’d be in serious trouble. The ten- and twenty-dollar gifts are appreciated, of course, but they don’t buy X-ray machines or high-priced medicines.”
“That’s true.” He extended his hand. “Thank you again for your help.”
“My pleasure, Mr. . . . ?”
“Harris. Frank Harris.” He gave her fingers a squeeze and released them.
“We’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
With a smile and a nod, Cal exited.
Knowing a lot more than when he’d entered.
Marge had confirmed Moira’s research that the doctor visited the elderly, but that he kept those visits low-key. And if Blaine and his wife were no longer compatible on the faith front, perhaps they were incompatible on other fronts as well.
There were a lot of new questions, though.
Who were the large donors from the previous three years?
How were they affiliated with the doctor?
What had prompted their very large contributions?
Why had none contributed two years in a row?
As he opened his car, tossed his portfolio onto the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel, getting those answers jumped to the top of his priority list.
Ken twisted the knob on his closet door, walked inside, and unbuttoned his shirt, stifling a yawn. It had been a long Monday. Too bad Verna Hafer had been in such a talkative mood.
But he felt for her. It was terrible to be old and alone and reliant on others to feed you and wash you and fetch you bedpans—sometimes not fast enough. The indignities were unspeakable. Offering her an understanding ear and a comforting squeeze of the hand once or twice a week was the least he could do. And she was grateful.
Tonight, she’d told him just how grateful.
As he bent down to untie his shoes, a smile curved his lips. There was no immediate need, but . . .
His smile evaporated.
Why was his scuffed tuxedo shoe barely concealed beneath the neat row of pants lined up on their hangers?
That wasn’t where he’d left it.
He distinctly remembered shoving it far back, against the wall, to be dealt with when time permitted.
Had Natalie moved it while she was vacuuming on Friday?
He picked up the shoe and examined the deep scratches. There wasn’t much chance it could be salvaged. It would be better to pitch the pair and buy new ones. There’d be fewer questions that way too.
As he reached for its mate on the shelf, he heard the closet door swing all the way open behind him, and he turned.
Ellen stood on the threshold. She inspected the shoe in his hands, regarding him with the same expression she’d had the night she’d found him with a drink in his study. The night he’d needed one, after letting that nosy reporter follow him around all day.
An expression that said she thought he was acting out of character.
That wasn’t good.
But as long as she was the only one who thought that, it didn’t matter.
Because she didn’t matter. Not anymore.
Only the work mattered.
He knew Ellen resented his shift in priorities—but that was her problem. He’d created something important. Something that mattered. Something that helped other people and made the world a better, more pain-free place. The alienation of her affections was a small price to pay in the big scheme of things.
When she didn’t speak, his irritation spiked. “What?”
She lifted her gaze to his eyes. “Rose called. They’re having a cocktail party Friday night, and we’re invited. I said I’d check with you.”
He cringed. Cocktail parties were a complete waste of time, filled with too much liquor and too little meaningful conversation. But he couldn’t be rude to Ted. Not after the man’s kindness to him through the years. Even if that meant suffering through the inane chatter of a party or attending an Opera Theatre benefit.
“What time?”
“6:30. I told them if we came, you’d be late.”
No kidding. Even if he rushed home from the office, he wouldn’t get there until 7:00. Affairs like this were the biggest benefit of having Ellen around. She ran interference for him socially and was willing to join him at higher-profile events, where appearing as a couple added an extra touch of luster to his reputation.
And why shouldn’t she? As long as he indulged her penchant for designer clothes, fancy restaurants, and semi-annual trips to that high-end spa in Arizona she liked, a few social engagements weren’t too much to ask in exchange.
“You can go over ahead of me.”
“That was my plan.”
With one more glance at the shoe in his hand, she exited.
Ken blew out an annoyed breath. He should have disposed of the ruined shoe immediately, as he’d disposed of everything else. But he couldn’t have come home barefoot—and he hadn’t brought any backup shoes. The boots were supposed to be the only extra footwear he needed.
Running his thumb over the marred patent leather, he looked back at the closet door where Ellen had stood. It was unfortunate she’d seen it, but a scratched shoe wasn’t incriminating. Nevertheless, the sooner he got rid of it, the better. It was a loose end.
And he didn’t like loose ends.
Stifling a yawn, Cal sank into the chair in his office and checked his watch. In ninety minutes, Moira was scheduled to arrive at his house, and before he left he wanted to do some research on the donor names he’d copied down yesterday during his visit to Let the Children Come headquarters.
“You’re still here.”
At Connor’s comment, he swiveled toward the door. “Yeah. Barely.” He yawned again.
“Dev cut out half an hour ago. I figured you’d do the same. He said you had him up till the wee hours doing a trash cover at the doctor’s house.”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time. But now I have a garage filled with garbage.”
The other man chuckled and leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “Been there, done that. I hear you’re going to have prettier company going through it than you had collecting it, though.”
Cal scowled. “Dev has a big mouth.”
“No arguments on that.” One side of Connor’s mouth rose. “I’m heading out, too. I didn’t plan to spend the whole day running all over the city tracking down a runaway teen.”
“Neither did I. At least it was a quick find.” He yawned again.
“Yeah. Makes you wonder how kids think, doesn’t it? Putting a bus ticket on Mom and Dad’s credit card wasn’t the smartest move.”
“Unless he wanted to be picked up, and that was his version of a distress signal.”
“Possible. The parents did seem like the fast-track, job-comes-first career types. Maybe this will be a wake-up call. Convince them time and attention are more important than a new iPod or the latest app for their son’s cell phone.”
“We can hope.” Cal massaged his neck.
“So when are you leaving?”
“In a little while. I want to check out a few of the names I got yesterday at the church.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow.”
As Connor left, Cal swung back to his computer. He needed to be out of here in an hour, max, but it shouldn’t take long to do some quick research on six names—especially since he was tr
olling. Looking for who knew what? A commonality, perhaps. Some piece of information that would give him a clue as to why they had made such large, one-time donations. An aberration that would jump out at him and suggest a further avenue of investigation—or possibly a link to that suspicious Friday night.
All of which was a long shot.
Still, it was worth the effort. Worst case, he’d be no closer to answers than he’d been when he started.
Stifling yet another yawn, he got to work.
In the quiet office, without any of the usual daytime interruptions, he covered the ground a lot faster than he’d expected. In less than the hour he’d allotted, he was ready to call it a day.
Because he’d found far more than he expected.
He shut down his computer for the night, leaned back in his chair, and flexed his stiff shoulders—the price he always paid when he grew too intent on his screen and hunched forward.
Wait until Moira heard this.
10
Moira slowed to a stop in front of a small story-and-a-half clapboard home and set her brake.
So this was where Cal had lived with his wife.
Where he still lived . . . with his memories.
Fighting back a wave of melancholy, she slid out of the car and locked it. No self-pity allowed. She had a different kind of garbage to deal with tonight.
She edged past the white van in the driveway and approached the front porch, passing between two empty stone urns that flanked the three steps. Based on the dried-up dirt, cobwebs, and rotted leaves inside, it didn’t appear as if they’d hosted anything living for a long while.
Maybe for five years.
Moira ascended the steps and rang the bell.
Fifteen seconds ticked by.
She tried again.
Nothing.
“Moira!”
At the summons, she angled back toward the front of the house.
Cal waved to her from the driveway and called out, “I heard the bell from the garage.”
She retraced her steps to the driveway, giving him a quick perusal en route.
Gone were the pressed slacks, crisp dress shirt, tie, and jacket he seemed to favor at the office. Today he wore decrepit jeans perforated with a few holes and a paint-splattered T-shirt sporting an Ernie’s Carwash logo.
And he looked just as appealing as he did in the more polished attire.
“Into grunge today, are we?” Her attempt at a tease came out a bit breathless.
The corners of his lips lifted. “I dressed for the job.” He eyed her own jeans and soft knit top. “I can see you’ve never done this before.”
“These are the rattiest clothes I have.”
“They’ll be a lot rattier after we’re finished.” He gestured around the side of the attached garage. “Let’s use the door in the back. I don’t typically open the front garage door when I’m doing a trash sort.”
Sixty seconds later, after she followed him around the side and entered the two-car structure, she understood why.
The floor was covered with plastic sheeting and strewn with garbage.
It didn’t smell too great, either.
If Cal noticed the odor, he gave no indication as he skirted the edge of the sheeting.
“Dev and I got their regular trash and their recycle bin. I pulled out the loose paper and put it over there.” He gestured to a small pile off to one side. “That mound is everything else—aluminum, glass, plastic, miscellaneous. I got rid of some of the messier items before you arrived.”
Hard to believe, given the yucky stuff spread in front of her.
Hands on hips, she inspected the mini disaster area. “Where do we start?”
“My guess is the paper will yield the best information. We should be able to go through the rest quickly. Why don’t we get that out of the way first?”
“You’re the boss.”
“Can I get you a soda before we plunge in?”
“Sure.”
As he disappeared into the house, she wrinkled her nose and gave the piles of trash another scan. Good thing she liked Cal. That was the only thing palatable about this job.
The door from the house opened and he reentered, diet Sprite in hand. He’d remembered her selection from the night they’d shared a pizza at his office.
Nice.
After pulling the tab, he handed it to her. What a contrast to Jack. Not only had her ex-fiancé neglected to open her sodas, he’d also never managed to remember she preferred her lattes skim, no whip, and with a shot of caramel. Even after two years.
“Before we tackle this stuff, I do have some news.”
She took a sip of her soda and gave Cal her full attention. “That sounds promising.”
“It is.”
As he recounted his visit to the Let the Children Come office—including the playacting he and the other Phoenix partners had done—she tipped her head and studied him.
“What?” Cal gave her one of his probing looks.
She shifted her weight and shrugged. “I know pretexting is a common PI technique—but does the . . . dishonesty . . . ever bother you?”
He leaned back against a workbench on the wall of the garage and folded his arms, his gaze steady. “Undercover law enforcement operatives use it all the time. Do you have an issue with them?”
“No. I’ve had occasion to talk to undercover detectives in my investigative work, and I’ve been totally impressed. They take a lot of personal risk in the name of justice. But this is a civilian operation.”
“Also focused on justice.”
Justice First.
The Phoenix motto echoed in her mind.
When she didn’t respond at once, a muscle contracted in Cal’s cheek. “We don’t do anything illegal, Moira. We’re all well-versed in the boundaries of the law. But we do use every technique available within those boundaries to get the job done and bring the bad guys to justice. When we use a pretext, we’re playing a part, just like an undercover operative is—and we’re doing it for an honorable purpose, just as they are. Our ploy paid off yesterday, by the way.”
His voice had cooled a few degrees, and a twinge of guilt nipped at Moira’s conscience even as he piqued her interest with his final comment. She hadn’t intended to question the integrity of the Phoenix operation, not after Cal’s willingness to take the case pro bono purely in the interest of seeking justice for the woman with the terrified eyes.
“I didn’t mean to suggest you were doing anything underhanded, and I trust that you respect the law. It’s more a moral than a legal issue, I guess.” She smiled to mitigate any implied criticism. “I grew up with a philosophy-professor father who passed on any number of sayings from the sages. Some of them stuck. Like, ‘Truth is the beginning of every good thing.’ Plato.”
“I have another one for you. ‘Each morning dispense justice, rescue the oppressed from the hand of the oppressor.’ Jeremiah. Or I could offer this from Proverbs. ‘On the way of duty I walk, along the paths of justice.’”
Her gaze flicked down to his cross-etched wedding band.
It was clearly more than jewelry.
“I’m impressed. But there are a lot of Bible verses about truth too.”
He let out a slow breath, crossed his legs at the ankles, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ve thought long and hard about the moral issue you raise, Moira. And I dealt with it long ago, during my first year as a beat cop. When you’ve seen the stuff I’ve seen, it’s a lot easier to justify pushing ethics to the limit in the interest of justice.” His jaw hardened. “Even then, the bad guys sometimes win.”
A flash of pain ricocheted through his eyes, and Moira knew instinctively it wasn’t caused by generic disgust at man’s inhumanity to man, but by something a lot more personal.
He turned away to retrieve some latex gloves from the bench, the gesture sending a clear message. He didn’t intend to share whatever story had prompted that reaction. And she couldn’t blame him. Not after her imp
lied criticism.
Time to make amends.
“For the record, I agree with everything you said. I just think it’s an interesting moral question. I’m sorry if I came across as judgmental.”
When he shifted back toward her and handed over a pair of gloves, the anguish in his features had disappeared. “I’m sorry too. I tend to get defensive about my work. Credible, competent, principled PIs have to overcome a lot of stereotypes—some of which are warranted. Like the ones that made you cautious on your first visit to our office.” One side of his mouth curved up, and he held out his hand. “Truce?”
“Truce.”
His brown eyes locked with hers as he gave her fingers a firm squeeze—and held her hand longer than necessary.
Or was that only wishful thinking?
She cleared her throat when he released her fingers, lowering her head to tug on the gloves. “So how did the visit yesterday pay off?”
“According to the tax filing for Let the Children Come, the organization is primarily funded by a couple of donors each year, plus Blaine. I did some checking on those other big donors for the past three years and I found an interesting coincidence.” He snapped on one of his gloves. “They’re all dead.”
Moira stared at him, trying to make sense of that. “How did you find that out? And . . . how could they donate if they were dead?”
“People with the means to donate those kinds of amounts—we’re talking several hundred thousand dollars here—aren’t nobodies, so I googled the name of the first person, looking for news articles or other mentions in the press. I found an obit from the year of the donation. That prompted me to check the obit archives to see if the others were there. They were. As for how they made the donations, I’m assuming they were bequests through wills.”
She wove her fingers together and frowned. “That’s weird.”
“There’s more. The last address for all of them was a nursing home. All different ones.”
Her stomach clenched. “Like the kind Blaine visits as part of his church outreach?”