Nowhere to Hide (14 page)

“
No. I didn’t know he was gone until I got an e-mail saying he was in Alabama looking at property. Said it could be big, but it was remote and he wouldn’t be in touch much.”

“
Well, if you get another one, forward it to me. Our Electronic Evidence Division might be able to trace it.”

“
I will.” She rearranged her silverware, and he wondered if could believe her.

“
Did your father say where he was in Alabama?”

“
Nope. I don’t know what kind of a project it is, either. Golf course, condos, shopping mall—could be anything. He’s usually on the land end. He gets investors, buys it up, finds someone who wants to develop it and sells at a tidy profit. Then he moves on before there’s too much stuff to tie him to one place. He never could stick around long. That’s what broke up the marriage.”

“
Okay.” He leaned forward a little. “What can you tell me about Crystal Shores?”

“
Crystal Shores?” Her expression changed for an instant. She knew something. The waitress appeared with their food, and Kimberly picked up her knife and fork and began eating immediately. She swallowed a bite and glanced up at him. “I usually get lunch around eleven-thirty. I’m starved.”

He scooped a bit of ice cream from his cobbler and stirred it into his coffee. “Go ahead. I’m grateful you were able to rearrange your schedule for me.”

“
Ginger’s not too bad about that. Of course it would have been nicer if she’d let me talk to you as a matter of courtesy instead of on my lunch break.” She frowned at him, as if to make sure he understood if she stayed more than that hour, she’d be losing money.

“
You’ll be back on time. And if we’re not done, I’ll have to buy a bunch of lingerie so we can continue on Ginger’s nickel.”

She smiled. “I have a feeling you’re going to make sure we’re done in an hour.”

“
That fund raising party we spoke about earlier was for a project called Crystal Shores. What can you tell me?”

She took another bite, chewed slowly and swallowed. “Daddy found a partner, or backer, whatever you’d call it. Someone to develop the project. It was going to be big. The deal of a lifetime, or so that guy said. Gravely.”

“
What was the project?” He hoped she’d say something to give him a reason to go see Gravely.

“
I don’t remember.” She stirred some sugar into her tea, watching as it dissolved. “Daddy paid for my ticket. Said it was a good investment. Might cover Billy’s college education.”

“
For five hundred dollars a person and your son’s education, I’d think you’d remember what it was for.”

Her spoon clinked against the glass and she glared at him. “Are you calling me a liar?”

He forced himself to relax and keep his tone light. Keep her talking. Don’t let her get defensive. “ Of course not. I guess I’d remember if I went to a party like that. Or do you go to a lot of them?”

“
No. It was a cocktail party. Lots of people in fancy clothes, violins, snooty waiters passing trays of tiny bits of food. Lots of booze. Maybe I had too much. For five hundred dollars, I wanted my money’s worth. Or Daddy’s money’s worth.”

“
But what about the project?” Graham urged. “I’m sure you’d remember if your father was involved, wouldn’t you?”

She took a sip of her tea, a bite of her sandwich, then another sip of tea. He worked on his cobbler, waiting for her to fill the silence.

“
Okay, there was this big model in the middle of the room and maybe I did take a look,” she said. “Golf course and a big recreation complex. Tennis courts, buildings. Trees and paths. And residences. It was hard to say what everything was by looking at the model. Lots of tiny buildings and pretend trees. The real thing probably wouldn’t have looked like that anyway.” Her tone took on an air of indignation. “And, as I believe I said before, Daddy usually left those things to others. I’m not surprised he turned it over to Gravely and left.”

“
Were there brochures? Any kind of literature? As a donor or investor, wouldn’t you be on mailing lists?”

“
All I ever got was requests for more money. I trashed them.”

“
What about Mr. Gravely? What do you know about him?”

“
Hand shaker. Big smile. Full of BS. Otherwise, nothing.” She tilted her wrist and touched her watch.

He checked his. He still had almost fifteen minutes. Time to push. “What would happen if your father didn’t come home?”

Kimberly’s attention dropped to her plate. She poked at the lettuce and orange wedge garnish. “Why wouldn’t he come home?”

“
I don’t know. A problem with this project? With Mr. Gravely? With another project?”

“
You think he ran away?”

“
I don’t think anything. You called us, remember?” He scraped the last bits of cobbler from his plate and pushed it aside. “You’ve already said he traveled a lot. What made you think this wasn’t an ordinary business trip?”

Her face reddened and she kept her eyes lowered. Her voice was flat. “I needed money. He didn’t answer my e-mail, he didn’t call and I had to have the money. I thought if he heard from the cops, he’d get in touch and he’d give me the money.”

“
For Billy’s birthday present?”

She shook her head. “No. But he loves Billy. Really.” Her voice had risen and she took a shaky breath. “Al—he’s my husband—has a problem. He owes some people some money. Not the kind of people you want to owe money, if you get my drift. I’m afraid of what they might do if he can’t pay them. I’d take a second job, but by the time I factor in the after-school care for Billy, it wouldn’t pay.”

“
What does your husband do?”

“
He’s in sales and marketing. But he’s in between positions now. He picks up an odd job here and there, so he has to be free. That’s why he can’t be home for Billy.”

She honestly seemed to believe it. Al was probably at the track, if Graham could trust Doris. In this case, he thought he could. Kimberly had finished her meal. He picked up the check. He’d never asked if he had an expense allowance in CID. No big deal. He could buy this woman lunch.

Not until he was halfway back to Orlando did he wonder if he had bought lunch for a witness or a suspect.

Graham parked his unit and raced across the station parking lot. Clarke passed him and gave him the usual smirk. What was Clarke doing at Central? Maybe Schaeffer really was pitting them against each other.

Schaeffer wasn’t in his office, and Graham breathed a little easier. Maybe he’d been gone all afternoon and hadn’t noticed the lack of Graham’s paperwork. He hurried to the computer he’d used earlier, breathing a sigh of relief when it was available. Scrolling through the directories, he cursed, softly at first, then louder. “Shit!”

“
What’s the matter? It’s Harrigan, right?”

He turned to the voice from a nearby desk. The man’s long, dark hair and three-day stubble told Graham he was working undercover.

“
Crispin,” the man said.

“
Damn computer ate my file,” Harrigan said.

“
You remember to save it?”

“
Of course.” Or had he? “It’s not here.” He cursed again. He’d spent an hour making sure his first report was perfect and then forgot to e-mail it to Schaeffer or print it.

“
Can’t help you, but you can try the folks in IT. They might ferret it out,” Crispin said.

Graham studied the man’s expression. If this was a practical joke for the new guy, Crispin hid it well. “How long will that take?”

“
Depends on the workload. Not more than a couple of days, usually.”

“
I don’t have a couple of days.” He fumbled through his notes and spent the next hour recreating his report, adding what he’d learned from Kimberly. Hearing Crispin’s fingers clattering across the keyboard at breakneck speed, Graham swore he’d sign up for the next keyboarding class no matter what.

He hurried to the room housing the communal printer and picked up the pages, then started for Schaeffer’s office. Crispin’s voice stopped him.

“
You left your files open.”

“
What?”

“
If you leave your desk, even for a pit stop, anyone can access your files. Make sure you’re either logged out or lock your screen if you’re not around. Requires your password to get back in.”

“
Thanks.” Had he logged out before he’d left for Kimberly’s? He couldn’t be sure. He’d never needed to lock a program with his laptop in the cruiser.

Crispin glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure nobody was eavesdropping, and lowered his voice. “There are a lot of practical jokers around here. They’ll send love letter e-mails in your name. One guy set up a macro so every time someone typed the word ‘the’, the computer added ‘asshole.’“

From the man’s tone, Graham had a good idea Crispin had been on the receiving end of that one. “Got it. Thanks again.”

 “
No sweat. Welcome to CID, where paperwork is king and nothing is sacred.”

Graham hurried to Schaeffer’s office, where the lieutenant was now sitting at his desk. Gritting his teeth at the way Schaeffer took a long look at his watch, Graham handed him his report.

Schaeffer glanced through the pages. “I see you’ve already been to Ocala.”

Graham straightened to full attention. “Yes, sir. I forgot to send it before I left, so I added my findings and brought you a hard copy.”

“
Keep on top of the paperwork, or it will bury you.” Schaeffer’s eyes pierced. “I’m assuming this is the last late report I’m going to get from you.”

Colleen sat at her kitchen table and stared at her computer screen until her eyes burned, knowing there must be something there that would lead her to Jeffrey. The daughter wanted money. Doris wanted to stay out of a nursing home.

Megan’s grandmother had never met Jeffrey, but had confirmed Doris used to live in the guest house. Jeffrey’s financial information revealed he had an active bank account and had been using credit cards. That was normal enough.

At the sound of tires in the drive, Colleen rubbed her eyes and walked to the living room window.

A steady stream of cars had pulled in and out of the driveway most of the afternoon, spewing people carrying trays of food and bunches of flowers. No black BMWs, however. She was glad Doris had such a strong support base, but Colleen wished she had an excuse to get into the house to search the file cabinets. Maybe later tonight, when everyone was gone. Assuming they’d leave. A green Chevy had been parked in front of the house for three hours, and sounds of laughter floated down from the open window.

A hollow growl from her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten anything since the bagel this morning. Four-thirty seemed early for dinner, so she put a bag of popcorn in the microwave before going back to the folder of papers she’d taken from Jeffrey’s office.

Birds, binoculars and cameras seemed to dominate the personal mail she’d seen at the house. She’d left the catalogs, magazines and newsletters, but she had some personal correspondence left to study. She was separating and sorting the pages when a popping sound sent her heart to her throat. She froze. Holding her breath, she realized the sound came from the microwave.

Would the damned attacks never end? It was popcorn. Stupid popcorn. Why did everything send her straight to the Bradfords’? PTSD, the shrink had said. No way. That was something combat soldiers had to deal with, not something that could happen to her. Not after one lousy incident.

Yesterday, outside Doris’ house, the noise from inside—television noise, no doubt from some cop show—had dropped her like a rock. And Harrigan had been there, his voice bringing her down to earth, his blue eyes showing worry. Her insides ached and it wasn’t from skipping lunch.

She remembered the quick, painful moment in Ricky Ferguson’s storage shed when she was fifteen. How afterward, she’d been convinced she was damned to an eternity in Hell. Guys had come on to her after that, but she’d refused them, built a wall around herself, waiting for some kind of a sign the time was right. And then she’d been shot and almost died.

Bits of the wall were crumbling. For Harrigan? She pushed the thoughts away.

She sat at the counter, head bowed into her hands for several more minutes, knowing her knees would buckle if she stood. Last night replayed in her head and she saw the jackass she’d been. Harrigan had brought her to the gym because she needed physical release. If he’d wanted sex, he would have made his moves in her apartment, not taken her to a gym and let her throw him around.

She allowed herself a brief smile. He hadn’t
let
her do anything. She’d tossed him fair and square.

That he’d figured out she was a cop didn’t bother her. She’d given him enough clues. Something inside must have wanted him to know. And she’d made the first move last night. She’d kissed him, and he’d been the gentleman and pulled away, and then, as her brothers would have said, she’d gone all huffy female on him and stomped out of the place.

Graham must think she was a total idiot and probably never wanted to see her again. He hadn’t seen her to the door, or even called.

But why should he? She was the jerk. Smart move. He started getting too close and she created an excuse to push him away. Would he want to come back? Would she ask? Could she ask? What could he see in her?

She ripped open the bag of popcorn, now cold and resembling salty, scorched Styrofoam. Her stomach lurched, and she threw the bag into the trash.

She went to the living room. Harrigan’s handkerchief sat on the coffee table, still covered in soot. She’d have to return it. She picked it up and carried it to the kitchen sink, washed it, rinsed it and squeezed it dry until she was afraid she’d destroy the fabric. She hoisted the ironing board from the laundry closet out to the kitchen and flipped the legs open.