скачать книгу бесплатно
The sting of reality dissolved her memory of those halcyon days in the past. Though the reminder hurt, it helped Shelby center herself, refocus. She nodded, pinched her lips together to stem the prick of nearby tears.
“Grant died ten months ago. Ten months tod—yesterday.”
“Ten months to the day?” Natalie lifted an eyebrow at her nod. “Well.” She made a notation. “Can you tell me what happened to him?”
What would Grant say if he knew she’d lost their precious child? Or did he already know? Was Aimee with him?
No! Please God, not Aimee, too.
Come home, sweetheart. Please come home to me.
Shelby closed her eyes, drew several deep breaths, then dashed away the storm of tears.
The policewoman studied her as if she wasn’t sure what to do next, then she reached out for the tissue box and held it toward Shelby. Another detail to store—the woman was good at reading people. But then she would be, in her job.
Shelby took one, wadded the softness into a ball and forced herself to go back in time.
“I’m sure this is all in your files,” she muttered, unable to quench the bitterness that always boiled up at the unfairness of it. “You’d only have to read it.”
“I’d rather you told me.”
“Fine.” Shelby unclenched her fists and began. “We owned—I own a business called Finders, Inc. Someone asks us to recover something they’ve lost—stolen art, heirloom jewelry, that sort of thing. Or they ask us to find someone they need to get in touch with—a friend, a brother, heirs. We employ a team of specialized investigators who are trained to discreetly locate these things or people and, if possible, restore them to the client. At the time of his death, Grant was working on a project.”
The utter silliness of those words struck Shelby as she said them. Grant was always working on a project. He loved nothing more than the thrill of the chase, the rush of tracking down a special order and presenting it to a buyer with that grand flourish only he could pull off. He would never do it again.
Would it be the same with Aimee?
No! She wouldn’t think that. Stabs of pain radiated from behind her eyes. She squeezed them closed, breathing deeply to regain control. Focus, she ordered her brain.
“Can you go on?”
“Yes.” Shelby forced herself to speak of a time when life had been simple, happy. “The thing you need to understand is that I didn’t work Grant’s case.” She struggled to pull up whatever scant details her brain possessed. “Anything I say is secondhand information. I don’t know many of the particulars, but that he’d been hired to find something a client had lost years ago—in Europe, I think. At one point Grant had information that the object was in Greece, but the lead never panned out. He’d returned and was following something new when the ex-explosion took place. He was killed in the fire.” She bit her lip, the loss bitter still.
“I see.” Natalie wrote something on her little black pad in precise letters. She tapped a pencil against the paper. “Can you tell me what the object was?”
Shelby and Grant had created two rules when they’d developed their plans for Finders, Inc. He’d insisted that in order to protect themselves, they must refuse to be involved in anything illegal. The second rule was Shelby’s idea—once accepted, Finders would always finish the case. Underlying both rules lay the implicit understanding that a client’s identity would never be revealed.
Finders never broke a confidence. Never.
“Why would you need to know that?” Shelby took a second assessing look at the detective who appeared more like a model. “My husband is dead. Are you implying that Aimee was taken because of something he couldn’t find? Are you implying that she, too, might be dead?” She could barely say it. Only by clenching her fists could she force the unspeakable words past her lips, even while steeling herself for the worst.
“I’m not saying that. No! Not at all.” Natalie’s warm hand closed over Shelby’s. “Please don’t think that for a moment. But if we knew who his client was, what he was searching for and why, we might have an idea about who may be behind Aimee’s abduction. Perhaps your client was angry that your husband didn’t find his or her item. Perhaps your husband did find it and sold it elsewhere.” She held up a hand as Shelby began to protest. “It’s all supposition, but barring any other leads, I have to consider every angle. We want to find your daughter, Mrs. Kincaid.”
Was this woman trying to smear Grant’s reputation? Would that help her find Aimee? Shelby hated her sudden suspicion of everyone, of every situation. Grant would never have endangered her or Aimee. Never.
If Aimee was all right, then she was being held by someone. But there had been no ransom request. Nothing made sense. Who would steal a child from her home, from the mother who loved her beyond anything else in the world, for no reason?
“I can’t imagine what any of Grant’s work would have to do with Aimee’s abduction. And remember, my husband died ten months ago. Why wait this long?” She saw Natalie’s lips part and realized she was wasting time by arguing. “Never mind. Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you.”
“Just tell me what you can recall.”
Shelby thought for a moment, organizing the bits of information her brain had retained.
“I never knew exactly what my husband was trying to recover. I was busy, working my own cases. When we were home, we deliberately focused on each other and our child, not on work. I do remember that Grant said his client was an older woman—over ninety, I think.” Was that what he’d said? Shelby reconsidered. “Or maybe the client hired him to find someone over ninety. Anyway, age was one reason why he wanted to conclude his investigation quickly.”
She reached toward the phone.
“I’m afraid I don’t know the client’s name offhand, but I can find out if you must know. Though I can hardly imagine she’d be a threat.”
Natalie frowned, shook her head.
“No. You’re probably right, a woman that old wouldn’t be involved in kidnapping. Perhaps something else connected with the business then? Some new client whom you’ve offended in some way?” she asked hopefully.
Shelby shook her head.
“Not me. Since Grant’s death, I haven’t even gone in to the office. Daniel, that’s Daniel McCullough, is in charge now. He was one of our operatives, but he’d ceased most of his fieldwork and begun to fill a role as coordinator when the business grew too much for Grant and I. Since Grant’s—well, lately Daniel’s been handling everything. If you want to know about other clients, you’d have to talk to him.”
“Okay. I’ll call him later. He’s trustworthy?”
“Completely.” At least there Shelby had no hesitation.
“Good. Now, I have more questions for you.”
Shelby rose, her mind moving into the automatic mode it would have used if this had been someone else’s child she’d been hired to find.
“Yes. You’ll want a picture, of course.” She started toward the door, but was prevented from moving by a firm hand on her arm.
“It’s okay, Shelby. We already have one. Your neighbor came over a few minutes ago. He woke up, saw the cars and was worried about you. He found a photo of himself and Aimee. We’re using that. For now.”
There was a look on Natalie’s face that Shelby didn’t understand.
“Tim? Tim is here?” She looked around, then realized that they would keep him away from her until they had all their answers. “Thank you, Lord, for Tim.”
“How well do you know Tim Austen, Shelby?”
Some flicker in the detective’s midnight-blue eyes added a waver of unease to the moment. Shelby frowned. There was something suspicious in her question.
“How well?” She shrugged. “As well as I know most people. Better, actually. He’s lived next door for about six months. No, maybe it’s been longer than that.” She drew a hand through her mussed-up hair and realized she hadn’t combed it, hadn’t yet showered. As if that mattered.
“I don’t remember exactly when Tim bought the house. But he never knew Grant. He came after that.” She smiled. “Aimee loves Tim. And he loves her. Tim often used to watch her playing while I was busy arranging details for the garden.”
“The garden?” Natalie stood at the window, her eyes on the newly tilled earth beyond the windows.
Shelby sucked in a breath of courage. Rehashing all these details seemed futile to her, but she supposed the police had to start somewhere.
“The rose garden. Yes.” She walked to the doors, pulled them open and motioned to the area beyond. “My husband loved roses. This was his garden. I’m working on plans to make this house and its grounds a public attraction, as a sort of memorial to him. He’d want to share the beauty he and Gran planned. Grant was my grandmother’s soul mate when it came to roses.” She couldn’t help the little smile that bubbled up at the memories.
Natalie scribbled in her book.
“The two of them had this saying: ‘The secrets of the rose can teach you about life.’” Clear as a bell, she heard Grant’s voice repeating the familiar phrase, his hands grimy with soil, face flushed from the sun, his grin radiant. He was so real in that moment, she could have believed he was standing there.
Then, like a mirage, the image dissipated, and she was alone.
Again.
Shelby swallowed, stared at the bush nearest the doors, the last one Grant had planted. Deep Secret he’d named it.
“Anyway, that’s my plan,” she murmured. “Aimee and I don’t need all this room.” Not anymore. Not with just the two of them.
Or would there now be only one person living in her grandmother’s home? She pushed away the ugly thought, concentrated on the detective. “Anything else you need to know?”
“You grew up in this house?” Natalie Brazier seemed surprised.
“With my grandmother, yes. My parents died when I was young. Gran took me in, cared for me, loved me. She helped erase—” Just in time Shelby stopped herself. There was no point in rehashing her childhood. “I was a researcher. This was home base. She told me it would always be mine. That was after I’d come back from Istanbul. I was hired to retrieve a painting for a museum. I met Grant in Istanbul.”
Shelby watched the men moving methodically across her lawn, knew they were police, scouring the ground for any clue they might find.
“Look, none of that past history matters, does it? I just want to find my daughter.” Her arms ached to hold that squirming little body, to feel those pudgy hands cup her face, kiss her cheek with a sticky sweetness that mere water couldn’t wash away. Would she ever feel that again?
“We’re trying, Shelby. Humor me, will you?”
As if she had a choice? Shelby let her glance slide around the room, felt a stab of anguish when it came upon the Christmas portrait they’d had taken the summer before, while the roses still bloomed. Aimee, beautiful beyond description in her white fairy-princess dress, as she called it. Grant, brown and fit from that trip to Greece, with his arms around “his girls.” Herself, grinning, blissfully happy, totally unaware her world would soon shatter. In the weeks and months that followed, Aimee was the reason she’d hung on, kept it together. The Christmas cards with the picture sat in the basement yet, still boxed, never to be sent. But this one photo she kept up here. It helped ease the loss of Grant somehow, helped her remember to be grateful she had his child to love.
Aimee. Her baby. If Aimee didn’t come home…Fear for her beloved girl clawed at her. She was so tiny, so innocent. Shelby’s heart shuddered. She could no more stop her tears than the rush of love that welled up inside her.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized over and over, “I can’t seem to stop crying.”
“You go ahead and cry if you want. Believe me, I understand.” Obviously uncomfortable, Natalie got up, walked around the room. “This is an interesting old house. How many rooms are there?”
“H-how many rooms?” Shelby considered it a most dubious inquiry to make at this particular time and began to wonder about Natalie’s experience in cases such as this. Shelby’s patience was running short, she wanted action. “I don’t know how many rooms there are. I never counted them.”
“Did your husband mind living here?”
Shelby blinked. She’d always assumed Grant had loved the old place as much as she. But she realized now that she’d never outright asked him. Something else there hadn’t been time to do.
“He always said he liked this room the most. We couldn’t have bought anything like this house, not at first, certainly not until we got the business off the ground. But it was my grandmother’s home and she didn’t want to leave. It seemed easier to move in with her when she started to fail, give her those last few years in the place she loved, among her roses. Of course, when Aimee came, we were glad she was near, that she could watch her great-granddaughter grow up.”
She knew she was babbling and grasped for control. Suddenly a new thought hit. Shelby felt her eyes widen, knew she was staring at Natalie. She should have expected this!
“What’s wrong, Shelby?”
“I know how this works,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s the percentage of parental involvement in cases of missing children—eighty per cent?” She glared at Natalie. “You suspect I may have had something to do with my daughter’s disappearance. That’s why you questioned me about the garden. You think I buried her?” She stopped, regained control, then continued. “Well, I didn’t! Search every room, go through every yard of the grounds. Tear them up if you want to. I don’t care. But you’re wasting time and I don’t know how much time Aimee has!”
“I didn’t mean to imply anything.” The hollowness of the words echoed around the room. “It’s standard procedure.”
“I don’t care about procedure. Just find my daughter,” she ordered through clenched teeth.
“Shelby, I wasn’t trying—”
“Listen to me, Detective. I love my daughter more than my life. I’ll give anything I possess to get Aimee back, do anything I need to. I don’t care how much it costs, I don’t care what extremes we have to go to. I just want her back—safe. Do you understand?”
Natalie didn’t answer immediately. Instead she walked across the room, sat down, leaned back against the sofa, her face inscrutable. Finally she broke the silence.
“All right. Let’s find Aimee.”
TWO
“I hope I’m not intruding. I saw you sitting out here, and wondered if there was something I could do.”
Tim Austen’s quiet voice roused Shelby from her contemplation of the hedge beyond. She blinked away the shadows, watched him shift from one foot to the other, hands thrust into his pants. In all the time she’d known him, her neighbor had always looked perfectly comfortable here. Now he seemed oddly fretful and that surprised her.
Of course, this wasn’t any ordinary day. Tim’s sandy-brown hair stood in bed-head tufts all over, as if he hadn’t taken time to comb it. His rumpled beige corduroy pants bagged at the knees. The worn flannel shirt he favored now hung partially untucked, a clear sign of his distress. Normally Tim was fastidious about his clothing. Sympathy tugged at her. He was missing that effervescent five-year-old as much as she was.
He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, then finally spoke. “Are you all right?”
“No.” She motioned to the chair opposite. The tears had stopped. Now she was drained of everything. The first few hours after an abduction were crucial. How long had it been since they’d taken her?
“Shelby?”
She glanced up, saw his concern. “I’m not all right, Tim. I want my daughter back.”
“I know you do. But Aimee is fine, Shelby. We have to believe that.” He stared at her, his eyes filled with shadows. “The writing said she was safe.”
He must know how ridiculous that sounded. To believe a promise scribbled on a mirror? Frustration at his gullibility nipped at her heart and tumbled out in the tone of her words.
“I don’t believe that. And neither do you. She was safe here with me, Tim. Happy and healthy and loved. How can she be safe away from the one who loves her most? That’s ridiculous!” The angry words emerged harsh and bitter, but it felt good to finally unleash some of the violence that whirled inside her.
Tim jerked back as if he’d been stung, eyes wide with surprise.
Shelby knew she should apologize, but she couldn’t. Not now, when she’d been waiting on tenterhooks all day and all night for something, some tiny ray of hope to cling to.
“You really want me to trust the scribblings of a kidnapper?” She shook her head, her freshly washed hair bouncing from shoulder to shoulder. “I don’t think so.”
“But Shelby, you have to have faith. You have to. You’re the one who said God…” Clearly worried by her angry glare, he flopped into her white wicker chair, crossed one leg over his knee, then took it down. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I saw you sitting here and knew you couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d keep you company but I’m making things worse. You look tired.”
Tired? If only that’s all it was.
The mirror hadn’t been kind earlier. Shelby knew her hair was a mess, unstyled, frizzy, dangling around her face like a mop. Pushing it behind her ears only emphasized the lines under her eyes, the down-turning pull of frustration at the corners of her mouth, but she hadn’t wanted to waste time on makeup or hairstyling. She’d made it in and out of the shower in four minutes, lest she miss the kidnapper’s call for ransom.
Only there hadn’t been any call.
“I heard them talking, you know, Tim, the police manning the phones.” She didn’t look at him, didn’t want to see the pity on his face. “I went down around midnight to get a drink. They thought I was upstairs resting so they were talking openly. They’re just as worried as I am that no demand has been made.”
He frowned, glared over one shoulder at her house, as if he could transmit his thoughts through the walls.
“I don’t imagine they know that much about kidnapping,” he offered. “I don’t think it happens all that often in a city as quiet as Victoria.”
“It’s not just the local police involved now. They’ve called in the RCMP, a missing persons unit, and I don’t know who else. I don’t really care who they call, as long as they find my daughter. But how can that happen when they have no leads, no suspects, nothing to go on? The neighbors weren’t even awake.” She lifted her head, caught a strange expression on his face. “You didn’t see anything, did you?”
