Clouds In My Coffee (15 page)

Strange name, yet familiar at the same time.

I peek through the glass windows and see that most of the fixtures and furnishings have been stripped. There’s still an art deco Formica countertop and a cracked mirror graces the whole back wall of the diner.

I wonder where Erik is now. I put that on my “To be Found” list, heading back to the car.

I notice a dark SUV parked in the drive when I return home. It’s late afternoon but, as I enter the house, I hear my father’s voice from his study.

“Parrish? Is that you?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

“Please, come in. There’s someone here who I think can help you.”

I pull off my ski jacket and gloves, making my way down the short hall from the living room that leads to his study. My father is sitting behind his oak desk and the visitor has his back to the door, but I can see he has thick wavy hair, raven black as a matter of fact.

“Here she is,” my father says, standing up and looking over at me with a smile, “My daughter, Parrish Locke.”

The man stands up, turning to me and, immediately, I feel my heart rate speed up just a bit. That never happens.

“Parrish, this is Agent Trevani, the one I told you about.”

He offers his hand to me, eyeing me with soft amber eyes that are in stark contrast to his dark hair, eyebrows and thick, sooty lashes. His nose is straight, his jaw strong and I’m pleased when I see that he has a chin dimple. It makes him look less foreboding.

Oh, he’s Italian—no doubt about that, but he’s got something else going on and, whatever it is, it works for him. “It’s nice meeting you, Agent Trevani,” I say, shaking his large, warm hand firmly.

“Miss Locke,” he acknowledges, giving me a nod.

“Please, call me Parrish,” I reply, feeling my cheeks warm a bit under his dark gaze.

He nods again. “I’m here in a slightly official capacity, though more as a personal favor for my...father,” he continues. “You’ll have to pardon my skepticism. The details of your situation are a bit...
inconceivable
.”

And here we go!

My father clears his throat before I have a chance to retort.

“Marco, I understand the complexity of the...situation. However, your father wasn’t nearly as skeptical as you seem to be when I explained the
complexities
involved. Perhaps you’ll take my word as I’ve experienced, firsthand, some of the spiritual intervention as a result of my daughter’s
gift
.”

I glance over as Agent Trevani runs a hand through his dark hair, a sardonic smile playing on his full lips. “With all due respect, Nick, I realize that you and my father go way back, and I’m privy to the details surrounding your friendship. As a result, I gave him my word that I would at least take a cursory look into the matter, but you have to know that this isn’t typical
agency
business.”

I watch, in awe, as my father’s expression morphs from a somewhat easygoing demeanor into something I’ve not see before, which likely represents his past mob behavior. It’s quicksilver calm, but with a hard-ass undertone. “Perhaps you don’t understand the depth of my daughter’s gift, Marco. I can attest to the fact that when we conversed after her...episode, she did, in fact, have undeniable knowledge of circumstances that occurred before she was born and that no one other than her mother or I would have been privy...”

Agent Trevani starts to respond, but Dad holds his hand up. “Please, hear me out,” he says, standing up and circling around his desk. He half sits on it, arms folded in front of him, peering down at the agent. Clearly, it puts him in the position of power and I like it.

“Parrish shared the details of her
episode
with me. While no one disputes the fact this is a very cold case, doesn’t the fact that this individual caused the death of two teenage girls and taking them across state lines constitute some kind of federal violation?”

Agent Trevani stands up now, facing my father. “This
individual
happens to be a federal judge now. He presides over federal criminal cases that the FBI puts on his docket. You’ve got to understand the sensitivity involved here. These aren’t cold cases. I checked into the names you provided; they were never deemed anything other than a suicide and an accident.”

He glances over at me. “So we need
credible
evidence in order to even start the process to open an investigation. What I’m saying is that we need something concrete from forty years ago. That’s not going to be easy.”

I speak up. “Can’t you have the body exhumed? Have forensic testing done to prove she was injected with something?”

“Watch a lot of television, do you, Miss Locke?”

He’s
really
starting to piss me off.

“Exhumations aren’t done without probable cause and without next of kin’s permission. You’re getting a little ahead of yourself here.”

“Okay, so let’s start with Cece’s mother, Nancy Adams, and her boyfriend, Erik Laughlin. They would be the most likely to verify what I already know. We could start there.”

Agent Trevani gives me a wry smile. “Are you a trained investigator, as well as a fashion model, Miss Locke?”

Now he’s just being an ass.

“Parrish, please,” I remind him. Don’t worry, Agent Trevani, I’ll try not to step on your toes. But, after all, I happen to know the questions to ask.”

“Touché,” he says his tone once again serious. “Let me call the Bureau. It shouldn’t take long to get their status.”

I can tell that it’s going to be difficult getting this agent on board if he doesn’t lose his skepticism quickly. One way to accomplish that is to get some of the players in front of me so that I can show him I know what the hell I’m talking about here.

I’ll make a believer out of him.

I learn quickly that Agent Trevani doesn’t waste time. Two hours later, he and I are walking down the hall of Good Shepherd Assisted Living Home in Evanston, where Nancy Adams has been a resident since a stroke four years prior.

“Listen,” he cautions me as we get close to her apartment, “let me take the lead on this. No telling how her mind has been affected by the stroke. My experience has been that stroke victims can easily become confused or even persuaded if questions are leading.”

“No problem,” I reply, giving an eye roll that he can’t see because I’m following him.

Nice ass.

Trevani had called ahead and spoke to someone on staff, explaining the reason for our impending visit and asking them to let her know and make sure she was up to it.

She was.

She answers the door and immediately I see that she uses a walker to get around. Marco Trevani makes the introductions. Nancy Adams’ apartment consists of a small living room with a dining area, a tiny kitchen, a bedroom and bath.

“Come sit, please,” she says, quietly, and I recognize only bits of how she looked during my episode compared to now. The years have not been kind. “I know you’re here to talk about my Cecily, but I’m not sure why.”

I can see that her stroke has left her partially paralyzed on one side of her body by the way she drags a foot when she walks, and grips the handle of her walker a bit tighter with her right hand then with her left.

Agent Trevani and I both take a seat on the sofa. Mrs. Adams manages to position herself in front of a special recliner that has the power mechanism to assist in helping her up and down from it. Once seated, she looks over at us questioningly.

He leans forward, clasping his hands, “Mrs. Adams, I know it’s difficult having to dredge these memories up after all of these years, but Miss Locke here, well, through some special circumstances, has come to believe that your daughter’s death wasn’t an accident.”

The woman looks over at me, her eyes are dull with age but, for a second, I see a spark in them. “I never thought it was,” she replies, shaking her head, “But, the coroner said otherwise. Nobody wanted to believe any other possibility. Said she was high on some kind of dope and ran her car over that cliff. I never did believe that but, then again, the sheriff said it was my grief talking and that the coroner’s report said different.”

“Was your daughter known to use drugs?”

She’s quiet for a moment. “It was the
seventies
. Oh, my Cece was no angel I know that. I expect she might have smoked marijuana, maybe dabbled in this or that, but not as a habit. I never saw anything that pointed to that. She was a responsible person, a good student, a cheerleader,” she finishes, her voice sounding sad. “She was all I had. And she was taken.”

“Who do you think took her?” I ask, feeling Trevani’s frown at my speaking up.

“Why, that boyfriend of hers! Erik Laughlin.”

“But, Erik was playing with his band that night,” I reply, “Surely witnesses verified that back then.”

“And how do you know all of that?” she asks, eyeing me closely.

“Mrs. Adams,” Marco interrupts, “Did you ever speak to Erik Laughlin about what happened to your daughter?”

Her wrinkled face crumples in a sob. “You’re damn right I did, but he told me he loved her more than life itself! That he had gone and bought some coffee shop for them to run together, for their future.”

“Clouds in My Coffee,” I reply softly.

“What?” Trevani quirks a brow.

“Oh, it’s one of those old metal diners. He bought it to refurbish. I guess he planned on keeping that for them. It’s on Route 189.”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Adams whispers, dabbing her eye with a tissue. “Went out of business years ago. I couldn’t stand to drive past it. Always made me think of my girl. She was all I had.”

She breaks into sobs again and Marco shoots me a dagger look, as if I’m to blame. I ignore him. “Mrs. Adams,” I continue, “do you remember that stuffed poodle Cece kept in her room, inside the built-in bookshelf of her bed? I think she called him Pierre?”

Her sobs stop abruptly. “How in the world do you know all of this?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I reply, “Am I right?”

I want her to say it—to confirm it, so Marco knows that I’m not full of shit. That I most certainly do have a gift and maybe earn some respect from him for it.

“Yes,” she says with a sigh. “I couldn’t part with it when I sold everything to move in here. It’s in the closet in my bedroom, up on the shelf in there.”

“May I get it?” I ask.

She nods, still dabbing at her eyes.

I immediately jump up and go through the door to her bedroom. Inside the closet, on a shelf filled with shoeboxes, I spot him clear back in the corner. There he is. Just waiting for someone to unlock the secrets Cece stored so carefully in her diary.

I return to the living room with Cece’s beloved Pierre. I need to handle this delicately. “Mrs. Adams, would you mind if I borrow Pierre for a few days?”

“What? Why?”

“Trust me, please? I promise I’ll return it to you, but you need to trust me on this.”

She nods. “Okay. I suppose there’s no harm.”

Her one shoulder sags now with exhaustion. “Is there anything else?”

I look at Agent Trevani.

“That should do it for now, Mrs. Adams,” he replies.

“Good. I’m just so tired today. And thinking about Cece again, well, I’m afraid I’m not up to answering any more questions anyway.”

Marco stands and goes over to her. Bending down, he takes her hand. “We’ll see that you get Pierre back, Mrs. Adams, and we’ll see what we can do to investigate your daughter’s death.”

“Oh thank you, sir. You know, I realize that my days are numbered, and that I will see her again, but it sure would do me good to clear her name before I die. People can be cruel, you know. Using Cece as a lesson for others about taking drugs, getting high and then crashing her car, commenting that she could’ve killed someone else driving in that condition. Almost as if she got what she deserved...” Her voice breaks up.

I go over and kneel down beside her. “Trust me, Mrs. Adams, she didn’t deserve any of what she got. I just need help in proving it.”

I look up at Marco and catch his gaze; he’s studying me now, for the first time, like he actually believes me.

“Bless you,” she says.

“We’ll see ourselves out, Mrs. Adams. We’ll be in touch with you soon.”