Illusions

by Janet Dailey

  “Chivas and water,” Delaney ordered.

  “The same.” Jared nodded.

  When the waiter had moved away, Delaney opened her purse and handed Jared a slip of paper from it. “These are the three private investigation companies that were recommended to me. Hopefully one of them will be able to help you find Kelly. I suggest, though, that you talk with all three before you make your choice.”

  “I will. Tomorrow.” He folded the paper in half and tucked it inside the breast pocket of his shirt.

  “If you know Kelly’s Social Security number, I’ll need it,” she said, then explained Riley’s connection in the state offices in Sacramento. “It may not turn up anything, of course,” she concluded, “but it’s worth a try.”

  “Anything is,” he stated and gave her the numbers, one at a time, while she wrote them down in her notebook.

  Delaney put her notebook away as the waiter arrived with their drinks. She picked up her glass and lifted it in a toasting gesture toward Jared. “To finding Kelly.”

  “Amen.” He clinked his glass against hers, then each took a sip of their scotch and water mixture. “For someone who’s not in the detective business, you’ve come up with a couple things no one else has. I’m starting to feel like a real effort is finally being made to find her.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “What is it your company does? Something about protection, wasn’t it?” A trace of chagrin appeared in his expression. “I admit that once you said you couldn’t help me, I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the rest.”

  “Wescott and Associates specializes in personal protection.”

  Jared frowned. “In other words, you’re a bodyguard.”

  “That’s an oversimplification of what we do, but—in plain language—it’s fairly accurate. However, we don’t exactly stand around and flex our muscles.” A hint of a smile showed around the edges of her mouth. “Our strategy is more like a game of chess. We’re the knights. It’s our duty to always be in a position to protect our king or queen—or to check any move that’s made against them. Which means we’re constantly trying to outthink our opponents and anticipate their moves, not merely block them.”

  “Who do you protect?” he asked. “And from whom?”

  Delaney raised her eyebrows at that all-encompassing question. “Let’s see…our clients have run the gamut of occupations. There were two doctors who operated an abortion clinic and started getting bomb threats from a radical segment of a pro-life group. A female defense attorney who won an acquittal for her client on a rape charge. She was harassed and stalked by a man who turned out to be a relative of the rape victim. There was a manufacturer who was attacked by a disgruntled ex-employee he’d fired. A few celebrities, corporate executives—especially those in companies that are international—people like that.” She paused for a breath. “In short, we protect all kinds of people from all kinds of people—the wealthy from extremist groups who pick targets based solely on the amount of media attention they can get; others from those bent on avenging a wrong, whether real or imagined; celebrities from fans, adoring or deranged. Sadly, there doesn’t seem to be an end for the need of our services.”

  “A commentary on the times, I guess,” he said and took a small swig of his drink. “What about your parents? Are they both still living?”

  Delaney looked down at her glass and shook her head. “My mother died three years ago. A malignant brain tumor.” She sipped at her scotch, nursing the glass with both hands. “She’d never been sick a day in her life. The only time she was ever in a hospital was to have me. Then she started having headaches. Instead of going away, they got progressively worse. Finally she went to our family doctor and…it was inoperable. In less than three months, we lost her.” She rubbed the cold, wet rim of the glass across her lower lip. “Whenever I think about it, I’m glad I had the chance to tell her how much I loved her.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Dad’s still going strong.” Thinking of him, she smiled. “He had a hard time of it after Mom died. He depended on her for practically everything. But he pulled through it. He even has a lady friend now.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s an actor. I’d say he was semiretired, but actors never retire.” She sensed his withdrawal, an almost physical pulling back from her. “I have the feeling you don’t care much for actors.”

  “Actors. Singers—stars.” He turned his drink glass in place, an arm hooked over the back of his chair. “I resent the way they regard preferential treatment as one of their rights—the way they think they can do anything they want because of who they are. And maybe…I just wish they’d get the hell out of Aspen.” With that, he downed the rest of the scotch in his glass.

  Delaney simply shrugged. “They have their faults the same as everybody. The spotlights merely make their faults more noticeable.”

  “It’s nothing personal against your father, Delaney—”

  She held up a hand to stave off the rest. “Nothing personal taken.”

  “Maybe I’d better ask if your father is someone I should know.”

  “Not hardly. Dad’s a character actor—one of those faces you see a lot and hardly ever remember—and never bother to check the credits to find out his name. His biggest role was playing a villain on a soap several years ago. Unfortunately his character outlived its usefulness and the writers killed him off—to the cheers of the viewers.”

  “Did the acting bug ever bite you?”

  “No way,” Delaney replied immediately. “When I was growing up, I saw how my father sat around waiting for the phone to ring. Unless an actor is in a weekly television series or a soap, he’s lucky if he works a third of the time. I couldn’t stand that. And I know I couldn’t handle all the rejection. They refer to auditions as cattle calls in the business, and it’s true. They round the actors up, herd them into a holding area, then drive them through the chute one at a time. They pass by a guy who looks at them and says, “No good, no good, no good.” And out the other end they come. I’m really not surprised actors have such fragile egos—or that when they make it, they constantly need to be reassured that they are good.”

  The waiter came by their table again. “Another round of drinks?”

  “Not for me,” Delaney said.

  “Me either. Why don’t we look at the menu,” Jared suggested.

  When Delaney agreed, the waiter produced the menus with a slight flourish, then recited the specials for the evening and left them to make their decisions.

  Throughout dinner, their conversation was relaxed and pleasant as they exchanged anecdotes from their childhood years and compared notes on their college experiences. Delaney was aware that Jared was steering clear of anything recent in his life. She guessed it was too closely tied to his sister, a subject he seemed intent on avoiding tonight.

  Outside, the sun had gone down and the purpling twilight sky had given way to night. The ocean was a shiny black mirror, edged by ribbons of whitecaps where the waves rolled into shore. The votive candle at their table cast a flickering light over Jared’s irregular features. Delaney found herself watching him while he talked, fully aware that he wasn’t handsome by any stretch of the imagination—yet he had the kind of face that made any woman look at him twice.

  Jared glanced at the plain gold watch on his left wrist. “It’s almost nine o’clock,” he said with some surprise. “I need to get back to the hotel and see whether there’s been any word from Kelly.” He signaled to the waiter for the check and reached into his hip pocket for his wallet.

  “Dinner was my idea. Let me have that,” Delaney insisted when the waiter left the check.

  Jared pulled out a credit card. “I can’t. I wasn’t raised that way, Delaney.” His response was firm, leaving no room for argument. Delaney decided against forcing one.

  Twenty minutes later, she pulled up to the entrance to his hotel. Jared climbed out the passenger side, then turned around and bent down to
look at her. “Thanks for the company and the conversation tonight, Delaney. I needed it.”

  “So did I.”

  But she was very conscious of all the wistful feelings she had as she drove away.

  NINE

  ON FRIDAY, FOUR DAYS AFTER mailing the jewelry lists, the owner of a pawnshop near Hollywood and Vine called to say he thought he had the locket in his possession. Delaney hung up and immediately called Jared’s hotel. Except for a brief conversation on the phone when he’d let her know he’d hired one of the agencies she’d recommended, she’d had no contact with him.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. McCallister’s line is busy,” the hotel operator informed her.

  Delaney hesitated, briefly wondering how long he might be tied up, then decided not to find out. “This is Delaney Wescott. Tell him to meet me outside the hotel. I’ll be there in thirty minutes to pick him up. Make sure he gets the message right away. It’s important. Have you got that?”

  “Yes, Miss Wescott.”

  She hung up, grabbed her purse from the bottom drawer, and bolted from her office. “Glenda, I’m picking up Jared and heading to that pawnshop. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.” She slung the long purse strap over her shoulder and headed straight for the door. “When Riley gets here, tell him the schedules, the routes, the layouts, and the special notes for the concert next week are on my desk. If I’m not back, have him go ahead and make any adjustments or changes he thinks necessary. I’ll go over it with him later.”

  She sailed out of the office, leaving Glenda with her mouth open in the midst of forming the words, “I will.”

  In under twenty-five minutes, Delaney whipped her car into the hotel drive and braked to a stop beneath its canopied entrance. She saw in a glance that Jared was not outside waiting for her; nor was there any sign of him just inside the lobby. Irritated by the thought that the hotel operator hadn’t given him the message, Delaney slammed out of the car, informed the parking attendant she’d be right back, and swept into the hotel.

  Four steps inside the lobby, she saw Jared coming toward her with a loping stride. He looked the successful rancher in his palomino leather blazer, western-cut brown dress pants, chocolate brown Stetson, white dress shirt, and bolo tie.

  “What’s up?” He frowned with the question.

  Delaney did her explaining on the way out the door. “I got a call from a pawnshop owner who thinks he may have the locket. We’ll go over there and see if you can identify it.”

  Two feet from the car, he caught her arm and spun her toward him, catching her by the shoulders. “You’ve done it, Delaney. You’ve done it.”

  She had a startled instant to see his joyous expression, then his head tipped at an angle and his mouth slammed against hers. The contact produced a sudden, sharp kick of feeling. But she recognized the kiss for what it was. Being kissed out of gratitude was the last thing she wanted. She brought her hands up to push him away. Then—something happened. His lips went still against hers for a pulsebeat or more. They started to pull away, then came back with a warm, wanting pressure that snatched at her breath.

  Before it could become more than that, his fingers tightened their hold on her arms. He set her back from him and turned his head, his hat brim shadowing his face from her. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice a little harsh and a lot husky before he headed around the car to the passenger side.

  Delaney stood there a second longer until the ground felt solid beneath her again. Then she turned and slid behind the wheel. As she drove away from the hotel in the direction of the pawnshop, she was conscious of the tension in the air. A tension that had nothing to do with the questions that would be answered once they reached their destination. A tension that had been created by that brief kiss. She didn’t pretend she understood the cause of it. It was simply there. She flexed her fingers, trying to make them relax their ridiculously fierce grip on the steering wheel.

  For once, luck was on her side and Delaney found a parking space less than half a block from the store. She was out of the car before Jared could come around to open the door for her.

  “There it is.” She pointed to the pawnshop sign above a storefront window, then felt she had to warn him. “Don’t get your hopes too high, Jared. It might not be your mother’s locket.”

  “I know.” They were the first words he’d said since they’d left the hotel.

  A string of bells above the door jingled to announce their presence when they entered the shop. The place had a musty smell heavily laced with lemon oil. Its walls, shelves, and counters were filled with an odd assortment of antiques, electronics, musical instruments, televisions, small appliances, and jewelry.

  An old woman with a pronounced widow’s hump shuffled out from behind a drum set, a bedraggled feather duster in her gnarled hand. “May I help you?”

  “We’re here to see Mr. Hoffmeier. I spoke with him about an hour ago—”

  “About the locket.” The woman nodded and waved a staying hand at them as she clumped off in her orthopedic shoes toward the back of the shop. “Karl. Karl, those people are here about the locket. Karl?” Her querulous voice rose shrilly on his name.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” came the impatient and complaining response from the back room, followed by the sound of uneven footsteps. Within seconds, a balding man emerged from the rear of the store, swinging his right leg in a stiff-legged limp. He wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses with a jeweler’s eyepiece attached to the frame, ready to be flipped down. He paused when he saw Delaney and Jared, studying them both with cautious suspicion. “Yes?”

  “I’m Delaney Wescott, Mr. Hoffmeier. You called me earlier this morning about the locket.”

  “Yes. As I told you, I cannot be certain this locket is the same one you seek.”

  “Yes, you told me. This is Mr. McCallister, the gentleman I spoke to you about. The locket belonged to his sister. If you wouldn’t mind showing it to him, we can find out whether it’s the same one.”

  “Of course, I have it over here.” He limped to the cash register. “After I spoke with you, I removed it from the case.”

  He produced a Prince William cigar box from beneath the cash register counter and opened the lid. He lifted out a round gold locket suspended from a gold chain, hastily located a scrap of velvet and spread it on the counter, then laid the locket on top of it.

  Jared stepped closer and touched the edges of the locket with the ends of his fingers. It was the size of a silver dollar, with a posy of flowers etched on the front with four tiny red stones marking the centers of each flower. His expression was frozen into something unreadable.

  “Is that the locket?” Delaney asked.

  He slowly nodded that it was. “I didn’t think she would sell it.”

  “The girl who brought this to me—she had no wish to reclaim it. I have been in this business fifty-two years. I can tell the ones who are reluctant to part with something from the ones who care only about how much money they’ll get.”

  “Do you remember what she looked like?” Delaney watched as Jared picked up the locket and released its catch to open it. There were no pictures inside; the round frames were blank.

  “She was young, blonde….” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Many people have come into our store in a month’s time. The faces begin to blur.”

  “Jared, show him Kelly’s picture,” she suggested. “It might help.”

  He took out his billfold and removed the wallet-sized photo of his sister. The pawnshop owner took it and peered at it closely. “The hair, it is perhaps the same color. The freckles, I don’t remember. But these young girls nowadays, they wear too much makeup. This could be the same girl, but I cannot swear it is.” He handed it back.

  “Did she give you her name or address?”

  “Of course. I buy nothing if a person will not tell me who they are and where they live. I keep such records for everything in my store.” He checked the numbered tag attached to the locket’s chain, then pivoted stiffly aroun
d to open a card file drawer atop an old wooden desk. Almost triumphantly, he pulled out a card and laid it on the counter for Delaney to see. “There it is. Johan—no, Joanne Smith, and her address…”

  When Delaney took out her notebook to write down the address, Jared leaned over to look at the card. “This handwriting isn’t Kelly’s.”

  “No, it is mine,” the shop owner replied, then looked up. “I remember now. Her right hand was in bandages. She’d burned it. That was the reason she was selling the locket—to pay the doctor.”

  “Can you find that address?” Jared asked Delaney.

  She nodded. “If I’m not mistaken, it should be near Exposition Park. I have a street map in my car. I’ll check.”

  “Do that,” Jared said and slipped Kelly’s photo back into his billfold. “I’ll be buying back that locket, Mr. Hoffmeier. How much is it?”

  “I’ll wait for you in the car.” Delaney headed for the door.

  For two hours they searched the general area for the address. Finally, Delaney was forced to conclude, “We have to face it, Jared. There is no such address. Kelly doesn’t want to be found.”

  He sighed, a long and discouraged sound. “You’re right. But her burned hand gives us something to go on. It’s merely a matter of finding a doctor who treated a Joanne Smith.”

  “Assuming she used that name and not some other alias.” She hated being the wet blanket, but it was necessary. “Even if you were lucky enough to contact the right doctor, you’d still have the problem of doctor-patient confidentiality. He wouldn’t be able to release any information to you about Kelly—not even where she lives.” She glanced sideways at Jared. “I’m afraid that’s a dead end, too.”

  He digested her words without comment. Delaney turned the car away from the curb and accelerated into the street’s traffic. The silence lengthened and she wished she had said something more encouraging, but she’d always believed in dealing squarely with the facts, and the facts dictated otherwise. They couldn’t be changed; therefore, they had to be faced.