License to Lie Page 6

  On the TV, the female anchor said, “When we come back, how a Carlsbad man brought a family together.” The station cut to the next set of commercials.

  “Mom, have you got any ideas where he might have gone?”

  Mom’s eyes were red and bleary. Her worry ran deep. There were no more tears though, she’d cried herself out. “We’ve been through everyone I can think of. Do you want to take another crack at his computer?”

  “I’m locked out without his password. I’ve tried everything I can think of. Maybe it will come to me, but I’m at a loss right now. Tomorrow, we’ll go into the bank and see if he’s hit an ATM.”

  “Roxy…maybe I should call the police.”

  “To what? Report a middle-aged man took a vacation?”

  Mom winced. Inside, so did I. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  She stared out the patio slider at Dad’s barbecue for a minute. When she spoke, her voice cracked. “You’re right. What would they do?”

  “Look, tomorrow, I’ll call the credit card companies also.”

  “Your dad always uses his credit card.” She sniffled. “A couple of weeks ago, he was at Home Depot and there were two checkers waiting. Your father went to the self-serve checkout so he could charge some stupid little thing he bought for two dollars. That man frustrates me so much. Two dollars!”

  Until we found him, I was sure that those types of memories would flood Mom’s thoughts. The station’s logo came on, the screen went black for a second, then the anchor was back on screen.

  “This afternoon in Carlsbad . . .”

  I said, “Hey, this is about us!” We both leaned forward to watch really local news.

  “When a young boy ran away from home last night. Skip Cosgrove, a Carlsbad investigator, found the boy at his soccer practice. Mandy Ochoa is on the scene with Mr. Cosgrove.”

  The image of the on-scene reporter, which had been in a small segment of the screen, filled the picture. “Thanks, Crystal. I’m here with Skip Cosgrove, a local investigator, who was called in when eleven-year-old Paul Nordoff ran away last night. Paul’s father, Herman Nordoff, is a local venture capitalist who has financed several large projects in San Diego County. We thought this story had special appeal because of how the boy was found.”

  The reporter turned to a hot-looking guy who stood just a little taller than her. He had short, dark hair that had a controlled, bed-head look. He was muscular, but not overly so. What caught my attention, though, were his eyes, which were intense as he focused on the camera. Anyone who got into a staring contest with this guy would definitely lose.

  “Mr. Cosgrove, where did you find Paul so he could be reunited with his family?”

  The hot guy on screen took a deep breath. He was either bored to tears with this interview or doing it under duress. “Soccer. He was at his soccer practice.”

  “And how did you know to find him there?”

  “I was called in to locate Paul. I noticed he had a strong interest in soccer when I was going through his room. His practice game was today so I was able to find him and talk him down.”

  “Talk him down?”

  “Lessen his anxiety. Reassure him that his parents loved him. Alleviate the usual fears that kids have.”

  The reporter did the typical reporter “uh-huh’s” and nods and kept glancing at him instead of the camera. She smiled and made nice with the investigator guy—a little too nice, in fact. I had a sudden thought that she was flirting with this guy on camera. Hell, what did I care? He was hot, she wasn’t bad herself. Let them do whatever, off camera. Get back to the story, the Nordoff kid.

  Nordoff? I did a quick mental review of my investor list. It was epiphany time—the big “aha” moment. Nordoff was on my target investor list, I just hadn’t had a connection or any other way of making a contact other than a cold call. Unfortunately, now would be a crappy time to call the guy for money.

  The reporter said, “There was quite a scuffle after the game. Tell us about that.”

  The investigator guy grimaced. “Things got a little out of hand when a press photographer tried to get pictures. That was the last thing the Nordoffs wanted. They just wanted a quiet reunion with their son.”

  “That’s actually why we’re interviewing Mr. Cosgrove. The Nordoffs have refused comment. Mr. Nordoff, who seeks coverage for his business projects, has decided he wants no press interference with his family at this time. Is that correct, Skip?”

  So now they were on a first-name basis. Whatever.

  The investigator guy said, “That’s right. The Nordoffs are only interested in helping their son return home to a safe environment. And that, I think we can all agree, would mean a normal environment without lots of outside influence.”

  Well said, I thought. This guy was smart as well as hot.

  Mom said, “He’s right.”

  “No kidding.” I glanced away from the TV to my mom.

  Mom smiled, “He’s cute, too. Huh, Roxy?”

  Shit, what did I have, “aroused” written in big red letters on my forehead? “I guess—if you like that sort.” I turned back to the TV.

  The reporter asked, “So Skip, what’s the lesson here for other parents in San Diego?”

  “Basically, it’s that parents need to listen to their kids. Try to find out what they’re interested in and make that their interest.”

  The reporter pressed her hand to her ear and gave a little nod. Obviously, someone had just given her new instructions and she was cutting the interview short. “Thanks Skip. There’s a good lesson for all of us parents. Back to you, Crystal.”

  “Well, at least someone’s got some good news,” I said.

  Mom stared off into space. What the hell was she thinking about?

  “Mom? Hey, more wine?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe we should hire him.”

  “Who?”

  “That investigator. What was his name? Cosgrove?”

  I did a double take. Oh, my God. I flushed. She was still thinking about that Cosgrove guy. No way.

  “You think he’d help us out?”

  Oh, that’s why she was thinking about him. “He probably only looks for missing kids. You know how people are. Everybody’s a freaking specialist.”

  “I’m sure he does more than that. Besides, money’s money.”

  “I thought you were broke.”

  Mom groaned. “Oh, that. I wonder how much he’d charge, though.”

  “If he’s working for Nordoff, probably more than you’ve got.” That’s when it hit me, if he was working for Nordoff, he could be a way in. For Nordoff, a quarter of a million was nothing. “Mmmm—what did you have in mind?”

  Mom muted the sound on the TV. “I was just thinking that maybe we need professional help. We’ve tried everything we can think of short of going to all the bars in town. Maybe we’re missing something. He went to the Nordoff’s place and noticed that the kid liked soccer and knew right where to find him. Maybe there’s something here that we’re missing. What do you think?”

  “It makes sense. I suppose it’s worth a try. We might be asking the wrong questions. Still, he probably charges a lot of money.”

  “I’ve still got a little cash in the bank. If it would get your father back, I’d spend it in a heartbeat.”

  My breath caught. Here I was getting five million from rich people and my own mother had barely enough money to hire an investigator. I cleared my throat. “Sure. I think it’s a good idea.”

  “This has you upset, too. I can hear it in your voice. You always try to be so strong, but inside, you’re just like me.”

  No. No, I was strong. I had to be. And then I was eight all over again. The man, my mark, is standing before me. He’s wearing a dark suit that hangs on him like it’s a size too large. His hair is shaggy over the ears, but he’s carrying an expensive-looking briefcase. Mom always says that rich people try to look poor. He wasn’t going to fool me that easily. “Hey mister, would you like to buy a R
olex? My mother wants me to sell it for food money. If you have fifty bucks, I’ll let you have it.”

  He stares at me with keen, blue eyes. He nods and licks his lips.

  There’s something wrong with this guy. Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe he’s not rich.

  He smiles. It’s a friendly smile that relaxes me a bit. “Sure kid. For a Rolex. Sure. My wallet’s in the car.”

  “Roxy?”

  It was Mom’s voice that cut through the memories. “What?”

  “You were far away. You’ve done that since you were little, but it always scares me. Is it the stress?”

  Apparently she thought I’d been thinking about Dad. “I’m fine, Mom.”

  I stood and went to the kitchen, then tossed the rest of my wine down the drain. This stuff was making me soft. Get it together, Roxy. How could I have been so stupid? I’d been eight, not twenty-eight.

  I turned around and started. “Mom! I didn’t see you there.”

  “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. So what do you think about hiring that guy?”

  “I told you. I think it’s a good idea. I’ll call him in the morning, it’s probably too late now.”

  “But if we wait, that means your father’s out there somewhere overnight.” Tears brimmed in her eyes.

  I put my hands on her shoulders and pulled her close. Mom was right, we couldn’t wait. “Let’s see if he’s in the phone book.”

  “Maybe he can come over now.”

  I mentally calculated Cosgrove’s rate at double overtime. Mom slipped away and opened the drawer where she kept the phone book along with a pad of paper, a pen, a flashlight, two candles, and a book of matches. I suppose if the power ever went out in the middle of the night and she wanted to call 9-1-1, the drawer contents would make sense. Right now, it seemed like overkill.

  As she flipped through the phone book, I considered how I’d approach Skip Cosgrove. It was one thing to hire him to find my dad, totally different to use him to get money from Herman Nordoff.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Skip

  Skip found the address without difficulty and angled the Porsche into the driveway next to the beige Toyota as Miss Tanner had told him to do. He was dead tired and hadn’t had dinner thanks to that damn TV interview, but after the way things blew up at the soccer field, handling the press for the Nordoffs was the least he could do. Herman had seemed extremely grateful and had told Skip to call him if he ever needed a favor. Often clients made such an offer, but seldom did they expect to fulfill their promises. To be honest, Skip doubted that he’d ever again have contact with Herman Nordoff.

  The house the Tanners lived in looked like your basic rancher—single story, three bedrooms, two baths, and a two-car garage. But, unlike the others in this neighborhood dotted with a mishmash of architecture and money, someone was missing from this house. Skip shook his head in disbelief. Two missing people in one day. He made his way up the concrete path to the front door and rang the bell. The ring was the standard “ding-dong” and served as a reminder that this home was very different from the Nordoff’s.

  Skip judged the woman who greeted him to be in her late forties. She had on a blue flowered blouse, a navy scarf wrapped around her neck, and black slacks. The rims of her eyes were tinged with red and she wore no makeup. Skip wondered if she never wore the stuff or if she’d just washed her face to erase the day’s tension.

  “I’m Skip Cosgrove, you must be Miss Tanner?”

  The woman shook her head and gave him a weak smile. “No, I’m Mrs. Tanner. Roxy is the one who called, she’s my daughter. I’m Evelyn.” She stepped to one side.

  Skip entered and shook her hand as he said what everyone was expected to say in situations like this. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband.”

  “Thank you. I have a bad feeling about this. He’s never disappeared before.”

  Skip caught how she averted her eyes when she said that and suspected she was lying. His next question was, why? He filed that one away for later and reassured her. “I’ll do my best to find him.”

  “Thank you. Let’s go meet Roxy.” Evelyn led the way, Skip followed her into the living room where another woman, a much younger version of Evelyn, sat.

  The similarities between the two women were striking. The younger woman’s features were more defined and less rounded, but she had the same trim build, the same blonde hair, and the same blue eyes.

  As the younger woman stood, he caught himself watching her closely. She was captivating, seductive, and something else—yes, dangerous. “Hi, I’m Skip.”

  “Roxy.” She smiled. “That was nice work you did with the Nordoff kid. You handled the interview very well.”

  Skip felt himself flush. “It was supposed to be a quiet reunion. As luck would have it, the soccer team coach called a reporter so he could get favors in the future. You know, get better coverage when he needed it.” Skip shook his head. “I got sold out by the kid’s coach. It turns out he’s up for a coaching job at a private school and thought having his name in the press would get him the inside track.”

  He realized that he was rambling. Shit. Why was he so nervous? He shook his head quickly. “Anyway, it ended well.”

  Roxy smiled at him. He recognized the move. It was what he’d do to calm a client.

  “Please, sit,” said Evelyn.

  Skip took a chair to one side of the couch. Evelyn and Roxy took up seats on the couch itself. Skip noticed a subtle difference between the two women. Evelyn was tense and worried, Roxy seemed worried also, but almost calculating in the way she positioned herself. Skip pulled a notebook from his back pocket. He directed the question to Evelyn. “Um, so when did your husband disappear?”

  “This morning. He started drinking and got really depressed. Then he went out and never came back.”

  “It’s a little unusual to start a search for an adult when they’ve only been gone a few hours.”

  Roxy shifted position. “Skip, my father’s been a homebody since he sold his business a while back. We think he’s been getting closer to some sort of breakdown. We—Mom and I—are worried that maybe it’s happened. My mom doesn’t want to wait.” Her voice took on a pleading tone. “What if something’s happened to him already?”

  Evelyn nodded and began to wring her hands.

  Skip glanced around the room. The furnishings had been very nice at one time, but they were showing their age. There was no expensive artwork on the walls, no sculptures or other fancy stuff on the tables—this was a middle-class family caught in a bind. He’d made a nice profit today. He could work this one without the big fee. “I charge $100.00 per hour. I’ll only charge you for time worked. Normally, there’s a minimum retainer, but I’ll waive that in this case.”

  Evelyn’s back straightened. “I don’t want charity, Mr. Cosgrove.”

  “Mom! A hundred an hour is hardly charity. Besides, you’re stretched as it is.”

  Evelyn crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re right, honey. I’m sorry, Mr. Cosgrove. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “No problem. This is a tense time. Let’s get started. And please, call me Skip. I’ve been Mistered too many times today. What’s his full name?”

  “Richard Allen Tanner.”

  “Date of birth?”

  “March 4, 1959.”

  “Do you have a picture?”

  Evelyn nodded. “I can get you one.”

  “When was the last time you saw your husband?”

  “This morning, maybe ten. No. About nine thirty.”

  “You said he was drinking. That early?”

  Evelyn’s face turned red and she licked her lips. “I guess you need to know this. He started about two months ago. He was working on some special project on his computer, but wouldn’t discuss it with me. He thought I didn’t notice. I guess I should have said something to him.”

  Roxy looked a bit uncomfortable. Could her father’s disappearance have something to do with her? Or, was she bother
ed by the idea of her father being an alcoholic? “Roxy, what can you tell me?”

  “I didn’t realize there was a problem until Mom called me this morning. I was at work. I’m just starting a new business.”

  Another entrepreneur doomed to failure, thought Skip. These were his clients, though, so he needed to be polite. He just hoped he didn’t get a full-blown sales pitch. “Oh. What kind?”

  “Venture capital. We’re funding an ocean-wave technology project for our first deal.”

  Whatever ocean-wave technology was, it didn’t matter. He had a guy to find. “Let’s take a look at his office. Maybe we’ll find some clues there.”

  Evelyn led the way, followed by Skip, who was followed by Roxy. They started down a hallway and Evelyn turned into the first doorway on the left. Another open doorway on the right led to a bedroom that Skip guessed had once been Roxy’s. At the end of the hall, a door stood ajar, a flickering half-light peeped out through the crack. Skip continued down the hall to the door.

  Behind him, he heard Roxy. “What the hell?”

  He felt Roxy grip his shoulder as he pushed the door open slightly. He glanced inside the room, then smiled at her. “Just curious.”

  “You think we’re so stupid that we didn’t check the bedroom?”

  “Not at all. When you’re looking for people, it helps to know where they came from.” He held her gaze. “What they left behind.”

  He waited half a second for a reaction. When he didn’t get one, he mentally catalogued that also. This woman was dangerous. He continued, “Seeing what a nice house and wife he abandoned makes this all the more curious.”

  Skip walked past Roxy, who stood with her jaw hanging slack. He found Evelyn in Richard’s office, where she’d turned on the overhead track lighting. She motioned toward the chair at the desk. He sat and recalled this morning’s mistakes all too clearly. “Have you moved anything?”