License to Lie Page 3

  It was all I could do to keep from smacking him on the side of the head. “I thought we talked about this early on. You were going to start investing and slow down on the spending. You knew your dad was watching. Why did—”

  “It just happened!” He glanced over his shoulder and whispered. “I, um, bought a new car.”

  Was I pissed off? Hell no, I was livid. I’d spent hours with Sonny, prepping him, coaxing him, explaining the value of investments, especially those with a high return. I didn’t want to know, but I had to ask. “What kind?”

  His face brightened as though he’d just gotten a new toy at Christmas. “Maserati Quattroporte Sport GT S. Roxy, it’s so sweet. 440 horsepower. It’ll do over 170—”

  “How much?” This idiot had spent my money on a goddamn car?

  Sonny grimaced. “How much? You mean, how much did it cost?”

  “How much did you spend, Sonny?” I felt like his mother. I’d practically spilled blood to keep this from happening. I knew why his dad had locked down the trust fund. Greedy little bastard. In my family, he’d have had to get a job.

  “Around a hundred and fifty. You want to go for a ride?” He raised his eyebrows a couple of times and gave me a flirtatious smile. “I could pick you up for dinner.”

  My anger began to subside as another emotion crept in—irritation. Sonny was like a mosquito buzzing your ear in the middle of the night. “You just made lunch plans with my secretary.”

  “It’s just lunch,” he whispered. “Besides, I told you, I got roped into that. She, like, threw herself at me.”

  I’m a helluva poker player and had learned a long time ago that taking someone’s money hurt them far worse than any amount of bitching and moaning. I never insult people unless I’ve got a reason or they’ve relegated themselves to the “worthless, never again” category, which was where Sonny belonged. I wanted to swat this little mosquito. He couldn’t write a check big enough to make him worth the effort. “No dinner, Sonny. You need to get it together. Your dad’s right, you’re out of control.”

  I stood and held out my hand. Punching him in the nose struck me as the more appropriate action, but I wasn’t an eight-year-old tomboy anymore.

  Sonny rose from his chair, a weird, confused look on his face. Apparently, he’d never been kicked out of an office.

  I shook his hand. “Call me when you get it together and Dad releases your trust fund. Maybe I’ll be able to get you into this deal then.”

  He held out his hand, his grip was limp and damp. “Uh, Roxy—”

  “Sorry, Sonny, but now I have to start making some calls. I’ve got to find a new client who’s got $250,000.”

  “What about my dad?”

  I’d considered going after Bruno Panaman in the beginning, but the guy was a brilliant businessman. Sonny had been an easy mark because his business acumen was on a par with Stella’s and he suffered from the “you’ve got to believe” syndrome. Not so with the old man. Selling him would be like walking a tightrope, not a task I was sure I wanted to tackle.

  Sonny winked. “I’ve already talked to him. He’s willing to consider an investment.”

  I eyed him. “You told your dad about this?”

  “Well, yeah. He always likes to know how I’m spending money.”

  “And you didn’t tell him about the car?”

  He squinted at me like a scolded child. “Guess that’s where I got into trouble. But he’s interested. At least, I think he is.”

  Thanks to Sonny, I was starting over. I had a couple of referrals, but this might be worth checking out. “Find out when I can meet with him.”

  Sonny nodded. He stuck both hands in his pockets and got his weasel-faced look that said he was going to ask a question. “I guess dinner’s out?”

  My glare gave him his answer. He nodded and made his way out the door, then waved at Stella as he left. A few seconds later she was at my door.

  “What’d you do to him?”

  I shook my head. “It’s not what I did. He spent the money he was going to invest on a new car.”

  Stella’s smile went into overdrive. “Really?”

  I suddenly realized who I was talking to—Sonny’s perfect match. Stella’s financial investments involved doctors and surgical procedures. I waved her away. “I’ve got to make some calls.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Skip

  Nordoff’s anger seemed to envelop the deck in a dark shroud of tension. A movement to Skip’s right distracted him before he could decide if he should walk away or tough this one out.

  “This is my wife, Mariane,” said Nordoff.

  Mariane Nordoff was small, blonde, and had a pasty-white complexion. She winced as she stood. Her shoulder length hair was disheveled, her pale gray eyes dull. She cradled her right forearm, which was in a cast, then lowered it to her side as she approached. She extended her left hand in greeting. Her handshake was the opposite of Nordoff’s. Instead of firm, hers was limp. Rather than hard, hers felt lifeless. It all seemed to match her worried appearance. “Mr. Cosgrove,” she said.

  Skip placed his other hand over hers and squeezed gently. “I’m sorry about your son. Call me Skip, please.”

  She nodded, “I’m worried about him.”

  Skip noticed the creases lining her temples deepen. He wondered if the redness in her eyes was from lack of sleep—or crying? Mariane Nordoff didn’t look like the kind of woman who was used to hard times. She lived in a well-to-do neighborhood and probably socialized with others who also had money. Other than those few little worry lines, her skin was smooth. Her clothing, though impeccably tasteful, was not ostentatious. No, Skip surmised that life had been good to Mariane Nordoff—at least until now.

  “Skip, the Nordoffs want you to help find their son,” said Wally. “When they got up this morning, Paul’s room was empty. Bed hadn’t been slept in. We think he snuck out last night.”

  It was the hesitation in Wally’s voice that made Skip suspicious. “Have you reported this to the police?”

  Nordoff’s eyes darted upward. “I don’t see why we need the police in this.” His words came out fast and in a short burst. “That’s why you’re here.”

  Skip glanced again at the cast on Mariane Nordoff’s arm. He realized now that her ashen complexion might be due to physical pain in addition to the emotional strain she was under. And what about the other warning signs? That faint bruise on the left side of her neck—was it on the way in or out? That dent in the drywall in the entryway. Had there been a couch delivered yesterday or was Mariane Nordoff the victim of domestic abuse? Skip stared straight into Nordoff’s eyes. “Why don’t you want the police involved?”

  Nordoff held Skip’s gaze. “That’s my business. Not yours.”

  “If you want me to help find your son, it’s absolutely my business.”

  Nordoff turned to Wally. “Look, you said he’d cooperate. Find me someone else.” He started to turn away.

  His wife reached out and took her husband’s arm. “Herman? Please? I’m sure Mr. Cosgrove will be discreet. We have to find Paul.”

  As Skip watched the interaction, he immediately recognized the communication disconnect between Nordoff and his wife. Nordoff thought of things in images. He spoke fast. His words conveyed the pictures in his mind. She, on the other hand, was more in touch with her feelings. She spoke slowly and wanted harmony. Rapport would be her primary concern. Nordoff wasn’t bothered by trivial details like other peoples’ emotions.

  Nordoff glared at his wife. His face reddened and Skip could almost feel the anger boiling beneath Nordoff’s skin.

  “Herman, he’s the best,” said Wally. “He’ll find Paul.”

  Mariane faced Skip, her eyes brimmed with moisture. “Please, Mr. Cosgrove, you have to help us.”

  “I don’t take cases where I don’t have access to all the information.” Inwardly, Skip knew he’d take the case anyway—for her sake. He knew what would happen to this frail woman if he didn’t. To be su
re, he’d check the public records. That would be easy enough. If Nordoff had abused his wife in the past, there would be a record. He could find that information with just a little digging.

  Wally’s jaw muscles tensed. “Skip, look, the Nordoffs have their reasons for not wanting to involve the police. It’s not something we can discuss. Those reasons have no bearing on Paul’s disappearance.” He repeated his earlier recommendation to Nordoff. “He is the best.”

  Nordoff balled his fists and glared at Skip with fury.

  Skip wasn’t about to let himself be intimidated by a client who hadn’t even hired him. “Herman, that attitude will get you nowhere. Wally, I don’t know that this is a good fit. I’m sympathetic, but if Mr. Nordoff is going to stonewall me, I won’t be able to do my job. I want to know what I’m not being told.” He pointed at Mariane Nordoff’s neck. “I want to know where those bruises came from. And what’s the real story with the hole in the wall in the front entry?”

  Mariane Nordoff raised her hand to the bruise on her neck.

  Wally’s face paled to the color of the sand on the beach three stories below. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. “I assure you, there’s no relation.”

  “You see, there’s the problem,” said Skip. “I’m not sure you know, Wally. I don’t think you’d ask. That’s what I don’t like about attorneys. They don’t care about the truth. But that’s what drives me. Maybe it’s all innocent. Or maybe there’s some dirty little secret that caused the boy to run away. I won’t work for clients who have secrets.”

  Nordoff turned away and gripped the deck railing, his back to Skip.

  Mariane Nordoff moved closer. The worry lines on her face deepened. She wiped at her cheek, though there was no tear there. “Paul is . . . troubled. He’s only eleven. He’s run away before, but always ended up staying overnight with some friends who live a few blocks away. We always knew where he was because they’d call us.”

  Skip noticed that Nordoff now faced them. Nordoff watched his wife with narrowed eyes and his arms crossed over his chest. Wally backed away a couple of feet and licked his lips as if wondering what to do next.

  Skip reached out and laid a hand on Mariane Nordoff’s shoulder. “Go on.”

  She took a deep breath. “Paul was in a fight yesterday at school with a couple of other boys. Herman left work early and met with the principal. He picked up Paul and brought him home, then made him go to his room. Herman had to go back to work for a couple of hours. Mr. Cosgrove, Herman’s never laid a hand on me or Paul. It was Paul who broke my arm, not Herman. And it was Paul who put these bruises on my neck the last time he ran away. Mr. Cosgrove, he tried to strangle me.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Roxy

  I should have squashed the worm when I had the chance. Now Sonny’s dallying was going to cost me more time. I’d been meeting with him almost every week for a couple of months and, in the end, what had he done? He’d blown the money on a car. With his track record, I’d probably hear from him about a meeting with his dad when hell froze over. So when Stella poked her head into my office, her news was the last thing I expected.

  “Sonny’s on the phone for you. He sounds pretty upbeat.”

  What had he done, bought another car on the way home? “Sonny?”

  “Hey, Roxy. My dad’s agreed to meet with you this afternoon. Would 3:00 p.m. work for you?”

  I was so shocked that Sonny had actually done something other than act like a spoiled playboy that I didn’t know what to say. “Sure.” Why I thanked him after that can only be attributed to Mom’s obsession with turning me into a little lady when I was still hanging out in my treehouse. I failed Ethics, but at least I passed Manners.

  If Sonny’s recommendation got me in the door and helped me convince his dad to invest, I’d be grateful—so grateful that I might not mention it since the elder Panaman would be pissed at Sonny once he learned he’d been fleeced.

  At lunch, I made a quick trip to one of my favorite haunts for an outdoor lunch of fish tacos. The restaurant is in a mostly residential section of Carlsbad on Harding Street, but the ambience always gets me. I’m a sucker for outdoor dining and this place has a patio enclosed by a white-washed pony wall out front and is filled with colorful umbrella tables. The food is also good, so I keep going back. Today, because of this afternoon’s meeting with Bruno Panaman, I opted for takeout back at my desk where I could rehearse my presentation. I had the material down cold, but thankfully the tacos were still warm—okay, lukewarm—by the time I got to them. When I finished lunch, it was time to deal with the next most pressing issue, my dad.

  I dialed the house.

  “Richard?”

  “No, Mom. It’s me.”

  I could envision her biting her upper lip. “Sorry—”

  “I’m on my way. We’ll find him, Mom. I’m sure of it.” Was I really?

  I hopped in my pukey beige Corolla and drove to the house. For now, this nondescript, but reliable, vehicle helped me keep a low profile. Once I pulled the plug on this scam and walked away with the five mil, I might want to treat myself to a new car. More likely, it would be a sunny beach where my bikini would be purely optional and reserved for dress-up occasions only.

  My parents live in the hills up behind Carlsbad. Their street is reminiscent of the town when things were more rural. No sidewalks, still some big trees, mostly older homes. The house, which is on the west side of the street, has distant ocean views from the back yard. It has three bedrooms, two baths, and a killer back patio with an arbor that’s ideal for sitting out at sunset on a summer afternoon. The kitchen faces the street, and that’s where I spotted Mom. She was in cleaning mode, which is where she ends up when the worry bug bites. Unfortunately, I hadn’t inherited the cleaning gene. Still, I have to admit I’ve gotten pretty good at picking a maid service. Mom calls that an extravagance. I call it hygiene-survival skills.

  Mom gave me a halfhearted wave as I got out of the car and met me at the front door. She wrapped me in her arms and we both held the tight embrace, perhaps to help us remember that we were in this together. I was surprised at how alone I felt when she let go.

  “Have you heard anything?” she said.

  I opened my mouth, but couldn’t bring myself to say the word. I shook my head instead.

  We walked, arm-in-arm, back to the living room. As expected, the place was spotless. Mom had been busy. She sat on one end of the couch and patted the empty space next to her. “Where could he be, Roxy?”

  “Have you tried his cell?”

  “He left it here.”

  Dad never went anywhere without his cell phone. “Where’s he been hanging out lately?”

  She shook her head. “You know your father. He doesn’t ‘hang out.’ He’s become addicted to that damn computer ever since he sold the business.”

  Dad had started with a local title company in LA right out of college. The detail work had been right up his alley and he went from clerk to title examiner to vice president in a short period of time. A few years later, he left LA to start his own company in Carlsbad. He recently sold the company to one of the behemoths that now dominate the field, but would never say how much he’d gotten. To top it off, retirement hadn’t agreed with him. Boredom had prevailed and that’s how he’d started poking around my business dealings.

  “You said he got really upset this morning and started drinking after he spent a couple of hours on the computer. Have you got any idea what he was working on?”

  Mom stared out the patio door. No response. Atypical behavior for my mom. She probably would have made a helluva con artist herself, but she had the honest gene—another one that seemed to have eluded my DNA. At times, I wondered if these were my real parents.

  “Mom. Do you know what he was working on?”

  “Roxy—how much money do you have?”

  “What? That’s a pretty personal question. Why?”

  Mom’s eyes brimmed with tears and her face grew red with
worry. “Your father didn’t want me to say anything.”

  Crap. Did she know? “About?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “About what, Mom?” She’d always been able to say what was on her mind. When had she changed? Why couldn’t she just spit it out?

  “I may need to borrow some money. Things have been tight lately.”

  “What? What happened to the money from the business? Dad must have gotten a lot from that.”

  Mom shook her head. “Between the business debt, taxes, and a few other things, there wasn’t much left—maybe two hundred thousand. Your dad put a lot into a stock he heard about from a friend and that went down. He bought more, thinking it was going back up. Then he started borrowing to buy even more of the stock. It just kept going down. We owe more than all of that stupid stock is worth. We’re broke, Roxy. And now I think he’s left me.”

  Thunder pounded in my ears so loud I couldn’t think. How many of my friends had seen their parents divorce? The split family was the new American standard. I’d never believed it could happen to me. To them. Over money? I managed a weak smile. “That can’t be right. You and Dad—you’d never—”

  Mom burst into tears and leaned into me. Her body shook as her sobs took hold. “He’s found . . . a way . . . out. He’s . . . gone.”

  I put my arms around her shoulders and held her close. Was I trying to reassure her—or myself? The pressure of tears built behind my eyes. The roaring in my ears continued. This couldn’t be happening. Mom’s shoulders shook and mine grew damp where her tears soaked into my linen blouse. A tear traced its way down my cheek, but I didn’t wipe it away, I just held onto Mom.

  “He wouldn’t. Not Daddy.”

  “He’s been unhappy for so long. He’s been so—so preoccupied. Maybe there’s someone else. Maybe he’s been e-mailing another woman. Maybe he’s—”

  “Shhh.” She would have rambled on, but I put my finger to her lips. We rocked back and forth. Together we let the tears flow and clung to each other for the one bit of comfort we both had, the other’s touch. Finally, I summoned the nerve to test my voice. I swallowed first. “Do you, um, want me to take a look at his computer? If there’s something there—if he had been e-mailing someone—or checking out web sites or something, it would be there.”