Torn Loyalties

by Vicki Hinze

  “Works for me.”

  She smiled. She couldn’t help it. The idea of spending a lot more time with Grant appealed...even if the work was grim and daunting.

  * * *

  Madison and Grant holed up at Madison’s mansion on the bay. The house fronted on the water and was open and airy, decorated with lots of cushy pillows and pastel colors. In the last North Bay Parade of Homes, it had been deemed stunning—and Madison agreed it was. She actually lived in a small section of the seven-thousand-square-foot home—the master suite, family room, kitchen and her downstairs office. The rest was just there. “Let’s set up in the dining room,” she told Grant.

  “Won’t all the stuff be in your way?”

  “Not at all. I only use the dining room for parties or when my sorority sisters gather here. It’s too big and formal for me. I like the kitchen.”

  “It’s an intimidating house.”

  “It is?” Genuinely surprised, she grunted.

  “I didn’t mean it was cold. It’s obviously a home. It’s just huge.”

  “Yeah, it is. Crazy for just one person, isn’t it?”

  “Not if you like it.”

  “I like the dock.” She glanced through French doors beyond the lawn to the wooden dock that stretched out into the water. “The house came with it.”

  “Ah.”

  That didn’t seem to surprise him at all. Madison was glad about that.

  While he hauled in the records and files Talbot had released to them as relevant, she phoned Mrs. Renault.

  “Lost, Inc. How may I direct your call?”

  “Mrs. Renault, it’s Madison.” In the kitchen, she leaned a hip against the sand-colored granite counter.

  “Are you on vacation, visiting friends or eloping with Grant?”

  Madison nearly choked. “What?”

  “How should I explain your absences around here?”

  Talbot had already talked to the woman. Probably before he’d talked to them. Eloping with Grant. The idea held more appeal than was likely healthy for them. “I was thinking more along the lines of we’re working on a case.”

  “Which one?”

  “You don’t know.” That would shock the others. They’d spend more time talking about Mrs. Renault being unaware than what Madison and Grant were doing.

  “Oh, my. You are pulling out all the stops.”

  Madison chuckled. “Your friend is counting on us. I don’t want to disappoint him or you.”

  Silence.

  Strange, but Madison let it stretch.

  “Reveal the truth, Madison, and let the chips fall where they may,” Mrs. Renault finally said. Sadness tinted her tone.

  It puzzled Madison. She watched Grant set a box of files on the floor near the wall within a couple arms’ reach. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “You know, dear, the truth is often obscured by half-truths and preconceived notions. I suggest you abandon them and start fresh with none.”

  There was a message there. And it wasn’t a positive one.

  The line went dead.

  Thoughtful, Madison hung up the phone.

  Carrying another box from where Beecher had deposited them at the front door into the dining room, Grant paused. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She frowned and motioned with her hand. “I’m not sure.”

  “Are you sick? You look kind of pale all of a sudden.”

  “No. No, I’m fine.” She was probably making too much of this. “I just spoke with Mrs. Renault. She’s telling everyone that we’re working on a case—she doesn’t know which one.” No way would Madison mention that eloping business to him.

  “What about that’s upset you?”

  “Nothing. It’s what she said after.” Madison turned to fully face Grant. “It was a warning, Grant.”

  He set the box down and walked closer. “What kind of warning? About what?”

  “She knows what we’re doing. I surmised Talbot had already called her. She said to reveal the truth. That it was obscured by half-truths and preconceived notions and she advised that we drop them and started fresh.” Madison swept her hair back from her face. “I think she’s worried we’re going to lose the truth because we’ll see what we expect to see.”

  “Or fail to see what we should.” He parked a hand on his hip. “She wouldn’t get more specific?”

  Madison shook her head.

  “Well, she’s not the type to say anything lightly. So we keep this firmly in mind and do what we’ve got to do.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like what?”

  “You accept her warning just like that?”

  “Of course. This is Mrs. Renault, Madison. She’d never misguide you or me, and no one is more protective of the troops.” Grant turned and picked up the box. “If she knows something and isn’t sharing it, she’s got reason. If we miss it, my guess is she’ll somehow put it in our path so we fall over it. We just have to have open minds.”

  She probably would...if she could. “What if she can’t put it in our paths? She’s got insights but she’d never breach security.”

  Grant squared the stack of boxes to the others, then turned to Madison, dusting his hands. “Then we’d better not miss the signs.”

  “Such a wise man.”

  “Are you getting testy with me?” Grant seemed pleased by that. He grabbed her and growled into her neck.

  “That’s going to cost you,” she promised, smiling up at him.

  “I’ll pay.” He pecked a kiss to her lips. “Good to see you getting back to normal.”

  “Normal? What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been walking on eggshells. It’s good to see your feet on the ground again.”

  “Not eggshells. In the clouds.” She let out a delicate laugh. “I’ve just been...happy.”

  “Healing.”

  She stilled, sniffed, totally captivated by him. “That, too,” she admitted. “We’d better get started.”

  His eyes warmed. “Yeah. Della Jackson’s case? It happened first. But let’s set up a system first.”

  Madison grabbed a dry-erase board. “I do love a man who appreciates order.”

  “Is that all it takes to please you?”

  He wanted to please her. Moved, she admitted the truth. “Not all, but it goes a long way.”

  Grant smiled. “Good to know.”

  * * *

  By eight-thirty that night, they had transformed the dining room.

  The far wall stood covered with photographs and pages with question marks for unidentified persons of interest and blank space to add more. The south wall, facing the water, was labeled “timelines,” where they would insert color-coded verifications of who was where and when. The east wall no longer held a giant mirror and magnificent oil paintings. On it hung a huge dry-erase board, where they would enter crimes they believed had been committed by Blue Shoes with the relevant data, and on the west wall, they’d hung a giant map of the United States and to its left, a map of North Bay and the surrounding area. There, with colored pins, they’d peg the locations of crimes and verified whereabouts.

  Madison stood back and reviewed what they’d accomplished. “So far, so good on getting things in order.” She glanced at Grant. “Hungry?”

  “Let’s get takeout.” He stared at the seven boxes of files waiting for their review.

  It wasn’t what he said but the way he said it that snagged Madison’s attention and raised an alert. “What’s up with you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, his expression serious. He tugged at the crumpled cuff of his sleeve. “I just keep thinking we need to hurry. If we don’t, we’ll miss something significant.”

  “As in ev
idence disappearing?”

  He blinked hard and fast. “Or maybe appearing.”

  His feeling resonated with her. She’d had an uneasy kind of strange feeling since Beecher had dropped off the files, though she hadn’t pegged it in the exact way as Grant. How he’d react to what she’d next say, she had no idea. But clearly it was time she found out. “We need help.”

  “We can’t call in anyone. You heard Talbot.”

  “I mean big-gun help. The biggest kind of help.”

  He looked baffled.

  She held out her hands. “Pray with me, Grant. Would you do that?”

  “I will.” He clasped her hands, gently squeezed and bowed his head.

  It was one of the most beautiful moments of her life. And even as it happened, she knew she’d cherish the memory of it for a lifetime.

  EIGHT

  By two o’clock on Saturday, content on the wallboards had taken shape on Della Jackson’s case. The timeline had been constructed, the crimes pinned on the map, and related photos were up. One question mark with a yellow line, signifying Della’s case, hung on the photo board. It represented an unknown mentioned in a report faxed over from Della, but never mentioned again.

  Grant sat sprawled in a chair at the table, reviewing the report for the umpteenth time, and Madison sat across from him, reviewing the supporting documents Talbot had accumulated on Della’s case.

  Only the ticking clock broke the silence as they scoured the documents.

  Madison finished and stretched, then refilled their tall glasses of sweet tea. When she returned, Grant sat staring at the closed file. “We’ve got to ask her.”

  “Yes.” She set the glass down on the table near him. “I’ll do it.” It would come across more natural than if it came from Grant.

  Madison grabbed her phone and made the call. When it rang, she engaged the speakerphone so Grant could hear the conversation, too.

  “Della, it’s Madison.”

  “Hi, stranger. Where’ve you been?”

  “Don’t ask,” Madison said, trying to forestall any more questions she didn’t want to answer about what she was doing. “Remember during your ordeal, that incident outside the Boat House restaurant with the skateboarder?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “Your report mentioned that he’d been paid to plant a little plastic mailbox in your purse, but you didn’t say who he was. I need to know.”

  “Tommy Jasper,” she said. “Paul and I went and talked to him and his father, Pete.”

  “The boy couldn’t identify the man who’d paid him?”

  “We showed him photos of suspects—Jeff Jackson and Crawford—but neither of them were the guy. He did say he was fit and could have been military—short haircut. He also said the guy had kept his tan. That struck Tommy as odd because it was October.”

  “You have an address on him?”

  “Tommy? Yes. Hold on.”

  Madison met Grant’s gaze. “It’s a long shot, but...” Mrs. Renault’s warning stuck in Madison’s mind. At the end of this, she wanted no stone left unturned and no regrets.

  Della came back on the line and reeled off the address, Tommy’s father’s name, and then said, “First you wanted the report and now this. Madison, what is going on?”

  “Nothing. I’m just wrapping up some paperwork.”

  “And I’m stunt-flying in a hurricane,” Della challenged her. “Did Crawford recant his confession?”

  “Not that I know of.” Apparently word hadn’t yet filtered out that Crawford was dead. There had to be a reason the news remained suppressed so Madison didn’t reveal it. “I’ve got to run now.”

  “But wait. If this involves me, I should—”

  “Don’t worry, Della. Everything is fine.”

  “Okay.” Still hesitant, Della sought reassurance. “But if it gets to a point where it’s not fine, you’ll tell me, right?”

  Madison wanted her friend to rest easy. To enjoy her new life and marriage to Paul Mason without the past haunting either of them. “I will,” Madison said, and prayed she hadn’t just promised something she couldn’t deliver. “Bye.”

  She hung up the phone. Grant was pulling photos down from the board. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting visuals for Tommy. Maybe he’ll be able to identify the man who paid him.”

  Madison grabbed her purse. In the garage, she grabbed a small ice chest.

  “What’s that for?”

  “We’re driving right by the Seafood Mart.” She shrugged. “I thought we’d have a shrimp boil for supper.”

  “Sounds good.”

  * * *

  Madison drove past the Boat House restaurant, then turned left to get to Grandview Avenue. When she pulled onto it, she slowed down to look for the street numbers on the mailboxes at the edge of the road.

  “There it is.” Grant pointed to a brick ranch.

  Madison pulled in at the curb. A red truck sat parked in the driveway, and across the street, a man raked leaves and dumped them into a wheelbarrow.

  “Pretty area.” Grant unbuckled, then checked his watch. “It’s nearly four. Looks like someone’s at home.”

  “Pete,” Madison said. “Tommy’s dad. He drives the red truck.” A for-sale sign hung taped to the back window. Madison dumped her keys into her handbag and walked with Grant up the narrow sidewalk to the front door. She rang the bell and heard the chimes sound deep inside.

  Tommy answered. Flaming red hair, thin and wiry, wearing a T-shirt that read Skateboarding Is Not a Crime and shorts that hung past his knees. He had a copy of Skateboard Science in his hand. “Yeah?”

  “Tommy, I’m Madison McKay and this is Grant Deaver.”

  “Dad?” he called back over his shoulder. “Some people are here about the truck.”

  Madison waited until a man who had to be Pete came to the door. He was brawny, with beefy arms and the same flaming red hair as Tommy, though Pete was going gray at the temples. “Afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon,” Madison said. “We’re not here about the truck, Mr. Jasper.”

  His eyes widened. “What do you want, then?”

  Grant stepped closer to the door. “Actually, we wanted to talk with Tommy.”

  Pete Jasper sent his son a sidelong look. “You been riding that board where you shouldn’t, son?”

  “No, sir.”

  Pete looked at Grant. “What do you want to talk to Tommy about?”

  Madison touched Grant’s sleeve. “Mr. Jasper, do you remember Della Jackson?”

  Tommy cringed. “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”

  Madison smiled. Apparently the boy had learned his lesson about working for someone he didn’t know. “We don’t think you did something wrong, Tommy. We’re just trying to close up some files.”

  “I read in the paper where they caught that stalker,” Pete said. “Gary Crawford. A cold-blooded killer, and my boy was that close to him.” Spreading his fingers an inch, Pete Jasper shivered.

  “It was something,” Grant said. “Glad you weren’t hurt, Tommy.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So what do you need, Ms. McKay?” Pete, not Tommy, asked.

  “I know Tommy looked at some photos for Della, trying to identify the man who hired him.”

  Tommy came forward. “Yes, ma’am. But he wasn’t the one they arrested. He didn’t look at all like him.”

  “Would you mind taking a look at a few more photos for us?” Grant pulled the pictures out of his pocket.

  Tommy looked confused. “Sure, but what for? It’s the same guy.”

  He had just said they didn’t look anything alike. Madison stilled, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Ms. Jackson asked us to keep an eye o
ut. I think she was scared he might come after me or something—you know, because I saw him. So we did watch for him.”

  “That’s right.” Pete crossed his chest with his arms.

  “I saw him in the newspaper.” Tommy looked at his dad.

  “He sure did. I called it in right away.”

  “To Della Jackson?”

  “No.” Pete looked at Grant. “He was wearing a military uniform, so I called out to the base. Told them all about it.”

  Madison and Grant exchanged a wary glance. “Who did you talk to out there? Do you know?”

  “Well, I got the regular number out of the phone book. They said they were transferring me to the...” He paused. “I can’t recollect.”

  “Information officer?” Grant suggested.

  “I guess. I really don’t recall, but it doesn’t matter anyway. They put me straight through to the commander’s office.”

  Grant shifted his weight on his feet. “You talked to Commander Talbot, then?”

  “I don’t recall his name, but it was the commander’s office.”

  Could have been Dayton or Blake. Most likely Blake, Madison thought. He typically fielded Talbot’s calls.

  “So what happened?”

  “I told him everything that had happened and that Tommy had seen a picture of the guy who’d hired him in the paper.”

  Boy, it’d make things easier if Pete knew whom he’d talked to then. “Okay.” Madison motioned to Grant. “Let’s get Tommy to look at the pictures.”

  “I don’t need to look at ’em.” Tommy hiked a thumb and motioned inside the house. “I can get you the picture from the paper if you want.”

  “You kept it?” Madison was surprised.

  “I thought I’d better. If he decided to come back, I wanted my mom and dad to not forget what he looked like. It’s hanging on the fridge.”

  “We’d appreciate seeing it, Tommy,” Grant said.

  Tommy disappeared into the house and the three adults waited on the stoop. “Is he loose?” Pete’s bright eyes filled with worry.

  “We’ll know in a minute,” Grant told him.

  Tommy returned. “Here it is.” He passed the newspaper clipping to Madison.

  She looked at his familiar face, scanned up to the date on the newspaper. “Dayton.”