Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2)

by Susan O'Brien

  Eleven

  Thanks to Dean’s goodnight kiss or sheer exhaustion (or the perfect mix of both), I passed out quickly despite my fears about interviewing Eli, leaving the kids in Siesta Key, and having a room near the elevator’s racket.

  My wake-up call came at five a.m., and my backup alarm went off a minute later. The experience was so jarring that I longed for my at-home alarm without an “off” button: Sophie.

  I stumbled to the bathroom and forced myself awake with a lukewarm shower and sample-size toiletries I hoped would work. I’d been too tired to unpack my shampoo and conditioner the night before.

  I saved hair-drying for last, not wanting to disturb my neighbors. It wasn’t until a few minutes into it that I realized something was wrong. My hair was still wet. What the follicles?

  I leaned into the shower to check the products I’d dumped on my head. I thought the clear one was shampoo and the cloudy one was conditioner. My bad. The clear one was a fancy oil treatment. The kind you use after shampooing. And the shampoo was still on the bathroom counter.

  Now fully dressed and made up, I had a decision to make. I could start the whole process over and be late. Or I could wash my hair under the bathtub faucet and be less late. Or I could meet Dean and see if he was into oil slicks. I opted for the faucet and wished I had Palmolive.

  Fifteen minutes later—and five minutes late for breakfast—my hair was mostly dry, extra glossy, and heavily sprayed. I needed to avoid open flames. Hopefully no one was firing up an omelet station.

  “Hey,” I greeted Dean, slightly out of breath. “I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late. I had a…shower issue.”

  “Oookay.”

  He wisely saved any questions for Eli, and we grabbed fruit, bagels, and water to go.

  Before driving off, Dean called the local police to let them know we’d be parked near Eli’s house. That way, if residents reported our surveillance as suspicious, law enforcement could handle it discreetly instead of blowing our cover.

  I programmed the navigation system, and off we went.

  Eli’s home was even prettier in person than it was online. The rising sun gave it a warm glow, and I admired prolific red and yellow flowers dotting its exterior. The weather was perfect—sixties with an expected high of seventy-nine. After we parked almost out of sight and cracked our windows, I pulled out our list of questions so we could review one more time.

  “Wanna take the lead?” Dean asked. Just like with the groomsmen, only one of us would ask the questions, and we’d switch midstream if Eli seemed uncomfortable.

  During a year of basic but new-to-me PI tasks, I’d found the best way to calm my nerves was to act confident, no matter how I felt. I had plenty of real-life role models, including Kenna and Sophie. But sometimes it took channeling my inner Beyoncé.

  “Sure,” I said, handing him the list. “Let me know if I miss anything.” And please, call me Bey.

  Since PI notes can end up as evidence in court, I joked with Dean about being neat and accurate. We’d emailed throughout our relationship (definitely no love notes), so I wasn’t familiar with his handwriting, but my kids had better penmanship than most adults I knew.

  We bantered back and forth, trying to ease tension, but my muscles were still knotted, just like my stomach. If Dean hadn’t been there, I would have done some deep breathing. Instead, I took one silent, cleansing breath and clenched and unclenched my fists a few times. I’d never played in a “big game” (unless you counted a triple-tiebreaker I’d had with Jack in “War”), but this felt like one. Time to show up or go home.

  My sensible flats clicked as we strolled up Eli’s stamped-concrete walkway. Dean pressed the doorbell, and I smiled nonstop, wanting to look as warm and open-minded as possible.

  A dog barked inside, sounding small and powerless in a hollow foyer. Through a frosted glass oval, I could see scruffy brown fur and tiny nails scratching with intensity. I was slightly relieved, because pets—while they can be occasionally annoying or dangerous—provide an opportunity to connect with interviewees. If animals (and kids, for that matter) sense you’re okay, you’ve got a chance.

  “Are you a dog person?” I whispered to Dean.

  “Today? Yes.”

  A blurry figure approached and leaned down. Then Eli opened the door and peeked out at doorknob level, restraining the puppy by its tinkling collar.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. He rose and cuddled the pup to his chest. “It’s okay, Muffy. Settle down.”

  I made introductions and explained our visit. In short, we were private investigators looking into the disappearance of Bruce Fallon, and although we knew the police had already come by, we were focused on the truth, not just finding culprits, if there were any. We wouldn’t take much time, I promised. We valued his perspectives and would treat him fairly.

  Eli scratched Muffy and inspected us. I gave them both understanding smiles, offered to show him our IDs, and waited a beat.

  “Fine,” he said. “Come in. I’m finishing breakfast before work, so this has to be brief.”

  “Thank you. We won’t take long.”

  That was a fib. I had no idea how long we’d chat. But I’d take whatever we could get.

  As soon as Eli turned down a hall with Muffy, I glanced around nosily at tennis trophies, dog leashes, abstract art, and framed photos of a young woman I guessed was Andrea. Now that we were inside and somewhat vulnerable, I wished I’d asked Dean if he was carrying. In fact, I should have asked him when he was at my house. I wasn’t a fan of guns. Until I was in mortal danger. Then they were the only thing I wanted. It was confusing.

  “Muffy is adorable,” I said. “What breed is she?” She looked like a four-legged teddy bear. I pushed away thoughts of Super Teddy and the kids.

  “A Norwich Terrier,” Eli said as we entered the kitchen, where a half-eaten cup of yogurt, a bowl of fruit, and a glass of orange juice were waiting. I was almost surprised there wasn’t a maid or cook. His house was perfection, including the sparkling pool outside the kitchen’s sliding glass doors, which opened to the morning breeze.

  Eli wore khakis, a pink button-down, and a multi-colored tie—the pink setting off his silver hair and baby blue eyes. It was hard to imagine him as part of a bloody crime scene—or any crime, for that matter, unless it was related to money or catalog modeling.

  He offered us water and welcomed us to sit anywhere, gesturing to empty chairs around a white kitchen table.

  Anywhere? Since humor (not water) eases my nerves, I imagined taking his chair and starting to eat his breakfast (mine had been pretty skimpy), but then I had to stifle a smile, which made me even more nervous. Inside, I was deadly serious and truly concerned about Eli’s daughter, but my brain wasn’t cooperating.

  We declined water and made ourselves comfortable, and I forged ahead while he took a bite of cantaloupe.

  “As I’m sure the police told you, Bruce Fallon disappeared recently. I understand you have some history with him. Can you tell us about that?” Oops. That was like asking the kids, “Can you please eat your veggies?” Too easy for them to say no.

  Eli set his jaw and paused. “I don’t like to discuss that.” Hmm. A grownup no. “But I would like to know who hired you.” With a comeback.

  “I wish we could say,” I said, glancing at Dean. Frank had asked that we keep his name out of things unless necessary. “But I can tell you that our only goal is to uncover the truth.”

  “Oh. You want the truth.” Eli grimaced. “The truth is that Bruce Fallon is a depraved, cowardly rapist who deserves to be shot, and I hope he rots in hell one day.”

  Oh. Okay. A couple clues there. Talking about Bruce in the present tense. Good. Wanting him dead. Completely understandable, but suspicious. Being so…candid. Helpful.

  “We’re so sorry about your daughter,
” I said. “Clearly, you’re convinced that Bruce is guilty.”

  “Everyone is convinced,” he said. “But he got away with it so Smyth could preserve its mediocre reputation. Meanwhile, Andrea will never get over it, and he gets to move on as if nothing happened. What kind of justice is that?”

  “It’s not justice at all,” I said. “As a parent, I can only imagine how that would infuriate me.” Dean nodded in support. “Let’s talk about the last time you saw Bruce.” Eli stared at me. “When was that?”

  “I’ll tell you exactly what I told the police. Andrea saw his engagement announcement in the paper months ago, but she waited to tell me about it. When I heard the news, I found Bruce’s number and told him he better call it off. It was obvious he wouldn’t, so I booked a flight to Virginia.” He pointed his spoon at us. “That man should not be allowed to marry anyone. He should be in prison.” He dropped his spoon on the table, and it took effort for me to blink rather than flinch.

  “When was your flight to Virginia?” I asked.

  “The day before Bruce’s non-wedding. I’m sure you know that.” He put both hands on the table. “You know what? I don’t want to answer more questions, and I’m late for work.”

  Oh, no. What had I done? I looked at Dean.

  “Mr. Morgan,” I started. “Whatever happened in Virginia is understandable because of what happened to your daughter. And finding Bruce is the only way we can hold him responsible for anything.” Unless Eli had already accomplished that on his terms. I was tempted to tell him about Lydia, but it was too personal. Plus, he’d learn soon enough if the media got hold of the story.

  He looked at his gold watch.

  “I’m going to tell you three things for my daughter’s sake. One, I met with Bruce the night before his wedding and told him I was going to publicize his past, which he obviously hadn’t shared with his fiancée. I gave him a chance to call off the wedding before that girl’s day—or life—was ruined. Two, I would never physically hurt Bruce, only because my daughter needs me more than I need justice. And three, Bruce tried to pay me off—with fifty thousand dollars I don’t need—to shut me up. When I left without it, he was fine. And when I showed up at his wedding the next day, he wasn’t there. I thought it was mission accomplished. Maybe he took the money and bolted. I don’t know. Now I’ve got to go, and so do you.”

  He was shaking, and I was afraid to say anything. So I took out our business cards and slid them onto the table.

  “We’re extremely grateful for your help.” I didn’t want to keep talking, but I had to. “We want the facts about Bruce’s past, not just the Smyth College version.” I let that sink in. His face and neck were red with emotion, but he didn’t say a word. “Is there anyone you think we should speak with?”

  He was quiet.

  “Finding Bruce will ensure he doesn’t escape some important obligations at home,” Dean added. “He left more than one woman in Virginia in a difficult situation.” Unless he knew something I didn’t, that meant Lydia and Mia.

  It was so quiet I could hear a clock ticking on the wall. Exactly four seconds went by. We all looked at Muffy as she perked her ears and stood on her dog pillow. Then she barked, and the doorbell rang.

  She got to it before Eli, making her the first to officially greet the police.

  Twelve

  We could see their uniforms through the door.

  Eli looked at us as though we could offer some guidance. When that didn’t happen, he yanked something out of his pocket, which turned out to be a card and pen, thank goodness. In that moment, Dean’s stance shifted, and he looked ready to pounce. Either he had great restraint or he wasn’t armed.

  We both relaxed as Eli jotted something on the card and practically threw it at Dean, who was closest to him.

  “Call my daughter and my ex. Tell them I need their help. Please.”

  I guess he knew what was coming, which made me wonder what else he knew.

  Watching someone get arrested is awkward. I mean, where do you look? What do you do? (Other than take a video and post it online like everyone else.) It would be rude to just walk away with a wave. (“Sorry you’re getting arrested! Call you later!”)

  So we headed for the sidewalk and inspected the card Eli had shoved at us. It was interesting, since it included his contact information, title (VP at the bank), and what he’d jotted down—his ex’s name (Suzanne) with her cell number, and Andrea’s name and number.

  After Eli was carefully loaded into a cruiser, we spoke with one of the officers, who wouldn’t share much except that Eli would be taken to the local station and eventually to Virginia.

  “That was interesting,” I deadpanned as we slid into the rental.

  “What did you think of him?” Dean asked.

  I thought he was guilty—but maybe only of being an angry father. It brought back memories of when a boy hit Sophie at the playground, and his dad said Sophie “had it coming” for refusing to share her toy. The rage I felt was so powerful that I scared myself. What startled me even more was realizing other parents had the same protective, killer instinct. Lesson learned: Don’t mess with people’s kids. Some of us may kill you—or at least think about it.

  Which made me consider Eli again.

  Anything was possible.

  “I don’t know,” I told Dean. “He was angry enough to fly to Virginia.”

  “Exactly. Which is pretty angry.”

  “I want to see that engagement announcement again and search for old articles about Smyth,” I said. “We have to call Andrea first, though. She should know about Eli, and we need to get to her while we have the chance.” I paused. “By the way, do you carry a gun?”

  “No,” he said, grinning and handing me Eli’s card. “Do you?”

  “No. But when he pulled this out, I got nervous.”

  “Me too. I’m almost glad I didn’t have one. Why don’t you call Andrea?” he asked. “I think she’d rather talk to you than me.”

  With that vote of confidence, I started dialing.

  Three numbers in, I changed my mind. I wanted to call the police first and find out when and how Andrea could get access to her dad. If we could help her through the process, maybe it would calm her down and make our conversation more productive. Second, talking with her in person would be best.

  Dean agreed.

  While I called the station, Dean whispered that he was going to knock on a few neighbors’ doors and ask about Eli. I nodded as an officer explained that Andrea wouldn’t be able to see her father for hours, because booking would take a while. Then I hung up and tracked down her most likely address, which wasn’t far away.

  When I got out to catch up with Dean, who was already chatting with someone two houses away, I heard a familiar bark. Muffy. I shielded my eyes and squinted, looking around for the adorable pup, who must have escaped in the commotion of Eli’s arrest.

  I realized the sound was coming from Eli’s side yard, which was out of Dean’s sight. As I hurried around the corner, Muffy saw me and darted across manicured grass toward the back. The closer I got, the farther she ran.

  Since I knew more about catching criminals than catching pets, I pulled out my phone, texted Dean, and consulted Google. Apparently, upright people, eye contact, sudden movements, and loud voices are terrifying to skittish dogs—not comforting, so I walked slowly, kept Muffy in my peripheral vision, and sat down quietly, praying she’d stay out of the street.

  I also checked online for more advice.

  What I found was disappointing, because it recommended eating loudly, preferably from a noisy, crinkly bag—and hoping the dog would get curious. That meant I’d have to fake it—certainly my most embarrassing pretext ever.

  “Mmm, nummy yum,” I said, crinkling a piece of notepaper from my pocket and pretending to shove irresistible
food in my mouth. Then I “dropped” some of it and “ate” it off the ground. (That was the bonus of faking; all imaginary food was edible.)

  Please, I thought, don’t let Dean see me like this.

  Muffy caught on quickly but took her time coming over. Now she was the investigator. When I thought she was close enough, I reached for her collar, making soothing noises while I pulled her into my lap.

  “Sorry I don’t have any real food,” I murmured. “It was for your own good.”

  I carried her to the sliding doors I’d seen open in the kitchen. I slid the screen sideways and, in the absence of beeping alarms, closed it behind us and set Muffy down. Then I ensured the front door was closed to prevent further escapes.

  I knew I should go right back outside, but it was tempting to move slowly, taking time to note anything helpful. I made my way down the hall we’d used before, stopping to peek into a laundry room with a bleach-white industrial sink and a table for folding clothes, on which an empty suitcase rested. I wondered if Eli had washed or thrown away any evidence. It appeared the trash had been recently emptied. Next was a bathroom, which was more beautifully decorated than any room of mine. I couldn’t help taking a closer look at a medicine bottle on the counter, which indicated Muffy, not Eli, was taking an antibiotic.

  Before I could step out, I heard clicking down the hall. Louder clicking than I recalled from Muffy’s nails. Clicking that reminded me of women’s shoes. Without thinking, I moved between the toilet and a large, white storage cabinet. My heart raced while I silenced my phone and considered what to do. I could text Dean and ask him to come to the door, distracting whoever had entered. Or I could be honest and tell whoever it was that I’d rescued Muffy.