Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel

by Irene Hannon

“Sure. Thanks again for dealing with the landlord today.” He picked up his pistol case.

  “Piece of cake. The guy was putty in my hands.” With a rakish thumbs-up, Dev strolled away and pushed back through the door to the range.

  Exiting the building, Cal shook his head. Dev was a piece of work. But one thing you could count on—despite his flippant manner, he was a pro through and through: always prepared, cool under fire, excellent instincts. And in a dicey situation, he could go from Mr. Laidback to the Terminator in a heartbeat. If Cal hadn’t witnessed the warp-speed transformation on a number of occasions, he’d never have believed it.

  Dev’s undercover ATF work, however, had changed him. The difference was subtle, one only close friends and family would notice, but even when he kidded these days his eyes held a hint of sadness.

  Cal hit the autolock button on his keychain, tossed his safety gear onto the passenger seat, and climbed in, setting the pistol case beside him. Whatever had happened to his carefree college buddy during his undercover stint had left scars deep enough to make him walk away from the career he’d aspired to for as long as they’d known each other.

  Then again, they all had their secrets.

  But it had felt good to share his with Moira.

  Clicking his seat belt into position, Cal smiled as he backed out of the parking spot.

  Dev was right. No matter what information they got tomorrow—or didn’t get—the day would still be worthwhile.

  An hour later, as Cal double-checked the address for Wayne Garrison against the seedy four-family flat in south city, it was clear that despite the less-than-optimal condition of Olivia’s duplex, she’d moved up in the world when she’d left this place. Tape was holding the broken glass in place on a second floor window, the front door hung open, and the edges of two of the concrete steps that led to the sagging porch had crumbled.

  Places like this were one of the reasons he’d never stopped carrying a gun.

  He slipped it out of the concealed holster and into his pocket. Then he slid out of the van, locked it, and started toward the front door, skirting pieces of broken pavement in the sidewalk.

  A set of wooden stairs inside led him up to 2-A, past one unit emitting rock music and another in which voices were raised in argument. A crumpled fast-food bag had been tossed in a far corner, and the distinctive skunky scent of marijuana hung in the air.

  At Garrison’s apartment, he stopped outside the door and listened.

  Music was playing in there too—tuned to a more reasonable level—but he could also distinguish male and female voices.

  Excellent. Garrison was home.

  After one more sweep of the hall, he knocked.

  The voices inside went silent.

  A few seconds later the door cracked open, and Cal gave the man who answered a swift scan. Early twenties, sporting several days’ growth of stubble and unkempt longish hair, he wore worn jeans and a dirty T-shirt with a picture of Mickey Mouse on the front. His feet were bare.

  On the plus side, his eyes were clear—if suspicious. It was a lot easier to get answers from people who weren’t high.

  “Yeah? Whaddya want?”

  Not the most cordial greeting he’d ever received.

  “Wayne Garrison?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m trying to locate Olivia Lange.”

  “She ain’t here.” He started to shut the door.

  Cal stuck his foot in the jamb. “Do you have any idea where she might be?”

  The man eyed his foot. “No.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Was it the time you pounded on her door and she got the restraining order?”

  Garrison glared at him. “Are you a cop?”

  “Not anymore.” Cal pulled out his credentials and flashed them at the man. “I’m a private investigator.”

  “Yeah?” Olivia’s former boyfriend squinted at the license. “Why are you looking for her?”

  “Because she seems to be missing.”

  “So who’s payin’ your bill? PIs don’t come cheap.” The man’s features hardened. “That doctor put you up to this?”

  Cal maintained his placid expression despite the sudden surge in his pulse. “I’m not at liberty to disclose the name of my client.”

  “I’ll bet it was him. Liv didn’t have any other friends.”

  “Why would he pay us to find her?”

  Garrison shrugged. “Maybe they had a thing going. She liked him okay, I guess. I didn’t. Wasn’t for him, we’d still be together.” His grip tightened on the door, whitening his knuckles. “Serve him right if she walked out, like she did on me.”

  “Any idea where she’d go?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care.” He started to shut the door again.

  “You do realize, given your history with her, you might be a person of interest to the police if we don’t find her.” Cal removed his foot and played his ace, hoping it would win him a little cooperation.

  The door stopped moving.

  “I had nothing to do with her going missing.”

  “You weren’t mad when she walked out? Revenge can be a strong motive.”

  “Sure, I was mad at the beginning. That’s why I went over to her new place once. But I never went back again. Found me a new woman.” He leaned away from the door and looked back into the room. “Get over here, Roz.”

  Cal waited, and a few seconds later a blonde moved into sight, cowering behind Garrison. He couldn’t see much, just a glimpse of a low-cut halter top, short-shorts—and what appeared to be the fading yellow of a bruise on the jaw of a girl too young to be involved with some deadbeat who got his kicks abusing women.

  He swallowed past his revulsion. Reminded himself he wasn’t here to bust Garrison, just to get information.

  “See. I don’t need Olivia no more.” The man jerked his head toward the girl. “Why don’t you check out that doctor dude who hired you? She might’ve liked him, but he also made her nervous.”

  That could be a significant piece of news.

  “Why was that?”

  “Beats me. Had something to do with an old guy who died at the place she worked. She was real upset about it for weeks. I didn’t ask a lot of questions.”

  “You know this doctor’s name?”

  The man sneered. “As if you don’t.”

  “I’d still like you to tell me.”

  “Yeah? What’s it worth to you?”

  Cal had seen that calculating, this-may-be-a-way-to-make-a-buck look before. And he wasn’t above paying off sources when necessary. In this case, though, it wasn’t.

  Looking past the man, he spoke to the girl in the background. “How old are you, Roz?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Garrison barked out.

  “My guess is fifteen, sixteen. Underage.” Cal locked gazes with him. “Cops would be interested in that. I have a lot of buddies on the force.”

  As the man considered him, a bead of sweat popped out on his temple. “Okay. Fine. His name started with a B. Bland, Blame . . . something like that.”

  Close enough.

  “Thanks.” Cal shifted sideways so he could see the hovering girl again. “You want my advice? Ditch this guy before he hurts more than your jaw.”

  Garrison cursed and slammed the door in his face.

  Watching his back all the way, Cal retreated to his van, grateful Garrison’s apartment wasn’t in the front of the building. If one of his windows faced the street, he wouldn’t put it past the guy to draw a bead on him.

  Once behind the wheel, he wasted no time putting some miles between him and Olivia’s former boyfriend—and calling Roz’s situation in to one of his contacts at the Division of Family Services. If the girl turned out to be as young as he expected, Garrison was in big trouble—an unexpected bonus of his visit.

  But there were many others. The brief interchange had confirmed Olivia hadn’t reconcile
d with Garrison, sealed the connection between Blaine and Olivia, and suggested that an incident with Blaine and a nursing home resident had made Olivia nervous.

  Coupled with the evidence Dev had found at her duplex, it was apparent Olivia had not only disappeared but vanished under suspicious circumstances.

  And Cal was becoming more and more certain that only Blaine knew where she was.

  Ken tapped a finger on his steering wheel and glanced around the grocery store parking lot. Between the fishing hat he used to wear at Ted’s cabin and his dark sunglasses, he doubted anyone would recognize him. He’d also left the Claddagh ring that had caused all the trouble in the top drawer of his dresser. But he didn’t like this clandestine stuff. It reeked of skullduggery. Nor had it been fruitful. Moira Harrison had done nothing with her Saturday morning to suggest she harbored the slightest suspicion about him.

  He was probably overreacting to that whole pen incident Elizabeth Williams had referenced at last night’s cocktail party.

  Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t as innocent as it seemed—and his instincts had rarely let him down.

  The nosy reporter came out of the store, pushing her groceries, and he slunk lower in his seat, keeping an eye on her. She loaded her bags into the trunk, returned the cart to the designated area, and backed out of her parking space.

  He turned on his own engine, determined to keep her in sight for the next few hours.

  By 1:00 in the afternoon, however—after following her to a dry cleaner, a shoe repair shop, and finally home—he’d discovered a big fat zero.

  But his uneasiness hadn’t dissipated . . . fueled, perhaps, by his plans for tomorrow.

  At least he wouldn’t have to worry about Olivia this time.

  A twinge of regret pricked his conscience, and he let out a slow breath. It was a shame about her. She’d been a nice girl, and she’d had a tough life. How sad, too, that there was no one to miss her—no family, no friends, and certainly not that scumbag of a boyfriend she’d ditched, with his encouragement.

  In a way, though, it was lucky—or providential—that of all the people who might have caused him problems, it had been someone like her. Someone who could disappear without causing waves or creating a void in another life. Someone whose absence would prompt no grief—nor an investigation.

  Ken watched Moira haul in the last of her groceries and close the front door. After all the errands she’d already run, it was reasonable to assume she’d be home for a while, and he had rounds to do this afternoon. The Ravitch procedure he’d used yesterday to surgically correct the Davis boy’s pectus excavatum had gone well, but he wanted to make sure no fluid was collecting under the skin and check for any signs of infection. The parents could use some hand-holding too.

  That would be a far better use of his time than sitting outside Moira Harrison’s condo.

  But he’d give it another fifteen minutes.

  Just in case.

  Now that was very interesting.

  From behind the tinted windows of the van, Cal scrutinized the black Lexus parked a few doors down from Moira’s condo. Lucky thing she’d warned him about dripping sap from the pine trees when he’d called en route. If she hadn’t suggested he park on the other side of the street, he might have pulled in right next to the guy in the odd hat and dark glasses whose attention was fixed on her front door.

  Cal retrieved his pen and notebook from his pocket, jotted down the license number, then pulled his BlackBerry off his belt and hit speed dial.

  Moira answered on the second ring, her greeting telling him she’d recognized his caller ID. “Didn’t we just talk? Are you lost?” Her tone was teasing.

  “I’m in front. But there’s been a new development. Do you have a back door?”

  “Sure. It leads to the patio where I sit and listen to the neighbor play country music. Why?”

  “I’m going to park around the block and come in that way. Can you wait out there for me? I’m not sure I’ll recognize your unit from the back.” He put the van in gear.

  “Why don’t you come in the front?” Her playful inflection had given way to puzzlement.

  “Someone’s watching your condo.”

  Silence.

  He hated to scare her, but facts were facts—and forewarned was forearmed.

  “Hang tight, okay? I’ll be there shortly. And boot up your laptop, if it’s not on.” He tapped the end button, slid the BlackBerry back into its holder, and headed for the corner—glad now he’d given in to the impulse to swing by her place and fill her in in person rather than on the phone.

  But he was also concerned.

  What slip had he or his colleagues made to alert someone to their investigation?

  The answer eluded him. Nor did it matter, as long as they got this situation resolved before the risk to Moira accelerated.

  Because he’d put another woman he cared about at risk once upon a time, and he didn’t have the stomach for another tragic ending.

  Moira wrapped her arms around her body and scanned the perimeter of the common ground behind her patio, doing her best to suppress the shiver that rippled through her despite the warmth of the late-May day.

  Someone was watching her.

  It was surreal.

  And since she wasn’t doing any serious investigative work at the moment, that someone had to be connected to the private investigation she’d initiated. But no one knew about that except Linda, and her friend would have kept such sensitive information under wraps.

  “Moira . . . I’m here.”

  Despite Cal’s calm, quiet tone she jumped as he materialized from around the bushes that gave her some modicum of privacy from the patio next door.

  He put a finger to his lips and motioned her back inside.

  She went without a word but turned toward him as soon as he entered and rolled the door closed behind him.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m about to find out.” He started toward her laptop, which was sitting on the dinette table.

  She followed in silence as he sat and logged into REJIS.

  “I thought only police had access to that.” She leaned over his shoulder as the home page for the Regional Justice Information Services website opened.

  “Licensed PIs do too—except for arrest information. We can only get convictions. The truth is, for a price, we have legal entrée to almost everything law enforcement does, except NCIC. The FBI guards its national crime database closely.” After entering his security codes, Cal typed in a series of numbers and letters.

  As a car registration appeared on the screen, her lungs stalled.

  Kenneth Blaine.

  Staring at the name, Moira sank into the chair beside him. “I don’t believe this.”

  “I suspected it might be him as soon as I saw the high-end car.” He blew out a breath. “I wonder how long he’s been keeping an eye on you?”

  “I’m guessing long enough to realize I’m trying to get to the bottom of that rainy night. He must have followed me to your office or your house. A couple of those were evening visits when he might have been free.”

  “That’s possible—but if so, you’d think he’d be concerned that we’re tailing him and not so blatantly follow you. Because his presence here confirms he has something to hide and he’s worried we might discover his secret. Rightly so, by the way. Evidence of wrongdoing keeps piling up, especially now that we’ve confirmed Olivia is missing.”

  She listened as he filled her in on Dev’s visit to the duplex, as well as his stop at the lab to drop off samples and his conversation with Garrison.

  “But do we have enough to prove anything?” She folded her hands into a tight knot on the table.

  “No. At this point, it’s all circumstantial. A scratched shoe. A verified connection between Blaine and Olivia. An alibi that has holes. Regular infusions of capital from deceased seniors to Let the Children Come. None of those mean much in themselves, but the individual pieces ar
e beginning to pile up. If the DNA samples match, that might warrant getting law enforcement involved and launching an official investigation.”

  “When will you have the results?”

  “Best case, Tuesday. Wednesday afternoon at the latest. Unfortunately, the three of us will be gone to Mexico on a personal security gig from Wednesday until Friday night.” He frowned and rested his forearm on the table as he shifted toward her. “I wouldn’t be too concerned about the timing if Blaine hadn’t shown up here today. The fact he’s taking that kind of chance suggests he may be getting nervous. And fear is a powerful motivator—especially if you have secrets that could destroy your life.”

  Blaine wasn’t the only one who was nervous. A coil of anxiety tightened in the pit of Moira’s stomach. It wasn’t a new sensation—she’d had it on occasion while doing investigative pieces for the newspaper—but for some reason this situation had an even more menacing feel.

  And she wasn’t thrilled to learn Cal would be out of the country. Somehow, knowing he was a phone call away had made her uneasiness manageable.

  As if sensing her anxiety, Cal covered her clasped hands with one of his. “I think this is a lot bigger than either of us suspected that first day in my office.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I’d turn this over to law enforcement if I thought it would speed things up, but considering their caseload, the lack of hard evidence, and Blaine’s reputation, I think we’re better to pursue it ourselves for now. We’ll give it a higher priority than they would. But since we’ll be on our own, we also need to proceed with much more caution.”

  “I agree.”

  “Are you still up for some surveillance tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” Better than sitting around alone, worrying.

  “Okay. Here’s how we’ll play it, in light of this new development. I’m going to have Connor stake out Blaine’s house in the early morning hours. I’ll have him follow Blaine to his first destination, which I assume will be Sunday services. The church secretary told me he never misses. Once we have that confirmed, I’ll swing by to pick you up and we’ll take over for Connor. Can you be ready to go at a few minutes’ notice?”