Sara's Song (25 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Sara's Song
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He was at the top of the steps. Izzie stretched out when Adam sat down on the top step. “She was a real person, Izzie. I didn't expect that. At first I thought she was going to be a gold digger. Then I thought maybe she was starstruck. Now I think she's exactly what she is, a credible doctor with a sister who is a nurse. Neither one seems to be the kind of person Dallas surrounded himself with. Back that up, Izzie. Dr. Killian is a doctor without a job. In the morning we're going to check that out. We're also going to do a check on Dallas's personal bank account.”
Adam leaned back against the wall. He stroked the spaniel's big head. It was a long time since he'd fantasized about anyone. There was nothing wrong with
fantasizing
as long as it didn't get out of hand. “I kind of liked her. I really liked her eyes and the direct way she stared at me. She was pretty in a wholesome way. I bet she's a knockout when she's dressed up. I sensed loyalty in her, and I think she genuinely liked Dallas. The sister was pretty verbal, but she was protecting the doctor. I liked that. I used to do the same thing for Dallas. There is a bond there, and that's good. So far, neither one has admitted there is a song. That's different from lying. This whole thing is making me sick. I keep asking myself what Dallas would want me to do, and I don't have the answer. It's almost Christmas. Jesus, I was really looking forward to it. Maybe we'll get a tree tomorrow. Never mind maybe. We're going to get one. I have a ... I have a stocking to hang up. Want to go for a walk, Izzie, before we turn in?” The spaniel was down the stairs woofing softly as she padded her way to the kitchen.
It was four o'clock in the morning when Adam finally climbed the steps to his bedroom. He slept fitfully until six-thirty, his dreams full of a woman in a white coat with a stethoscope around her neck, when Tom Silk poked his head in the door to take Izzie and the pups downstairs. He groaned. Another day. Another set of problems lurked below on the first floor. He was sure of it.
 
 
The Disaster Master crew arrived promptly at eight o'clock. Sara and Carly had jackets and purses in hand.
“We'll be done by three, ma'am,” the crew's chief said smartly.
“We'll be back by then. Just in case we're running late, I'll leave the check on the kitchen counter. Just lock the door behind you.”
In the garage with the light on, Sara noticed that the Jaguar hood ornament was missing from her car. Her fist shot out, making contact with the hard plastic window of Carly's Jeep. “Now
that pisses
me off.”
“You drive, Sara. I have a couple of calls to make.”
Sara listened to her sister, her jaw dropping when she heard her ask, her voice dripping sweetness, what a previously unrecorded Dallas Lord song was worth. “I don't think it really matters who I am. Just give me a number. Well, why not? There is priceless and then there is priceless. How many zeros are you talking about? Oh, I see. You know what, I'll get back to you.”
“I don't think that was a smart thing to do, Carly. How did you know whom to call?”
“I have some of Dallas's albums and a few of his tapes. I just called the company on the label.”
“I guess you know your phone call will make the six o'clock news tonight.”
“So what! I didn't give my name. It's very difficult to trace a cell-phone number. Even EMS has a hard time finding people who call in with a cell phone. I wasn't on the line more than three minutes. Maybe it will give Mr. Lord pause for thought. Where are we going, Sara?”
“To O'Brien's furniture store. I think if we explain what happened, they will deliver us some new beds and den furniture. Later on we can get the rest. So, how much did they tell you the song was worth?”
Carly's eyes glazed over. “He said it was the three front numbers that were important. To me it could mean a hundred million. That can't be right, can it, Sara? I remember reading somewhere that one of Michael Jackson's song earned that much money, and he's still alive.”
“I suppose anything is possible. No wonder Mr. Lord wants it so bad.”
“Did you believe him when he said Dallas was going to call off the marriage?”
“No. Dallas couldn't wait to say I do. I think he was trying to one-up his brother. He's had this fear all his life that he was retarded.”
“What?”
“You heard me. He isn't . . . wasn't. I'm not sure if Adam and the band knew he wasn't. Dallas truly believed they all thought he was retarded. He said it was simpler to just go along with it. The reason he thought it was simpler was because he believed it.”
“My God, how awful.”
“Yes, it was awful,” Sura said quietly. “Can you imagine carrying something like that on your shoulders all your life?”
“Are you sure, Sara? Did you tell him he wasn't?”
“Carly, I'm a doctor. Of course I'm sure, and, yes, I told him. I wish you could have seen his face. I will never, ever, forget the joy I saw in that man's face. I will remember it until the day I die. At that precise moment Dallas became a different person. That's another reason why I know he wasn't going to cancel the wedding. I want to always remember him like he was that day, alive, vibrant, ready to take on the world and not hide behind his music. He literally came into his own. He said something kind of funny yet sad to me. He said, Now I can eyeball my brother and not look away. He made me cry. That was the night he gave me the master copy of the song.”
“Then by God, we aren't giving it up! Let's get one of those spiffy satin couches. With a chair to match.”
“Whatever you want. You better call the insurance company before we go into the store. Just ask for Joe Hamilton. The number's in the address book in my bag.”
Carly yanked at the voluminous quilted bag that belonged to Sara. “What
do
you have in this bag, Sara?”
“My life.”
Sara pulled into a parking space at O'Brien's Furniture Mart just as Carly broke the connection. “We have to get a copy of the police report and fax it to Joe. We also have to make a list of the damage. There is a $200 deductible. Maybe we should have taken Mr. Lord up on his offer to furnish the house.”
“I don't want anything from him. I don't think you do either. We're going by the book here. When we start doing things his way, it's all over. Trust me on that. Now, let's go pick out that satin couch and chair.”
 
 
Adam carried his breakfast coffee outside so he could watch his dogs romp with Tom Silk. He couldn't remember ever being this tired. He had slept less than three hours last night. Each time he closed his eyes all he could think about was Sara Killian's shocked, vulnerable face. Each time he closed his eyes he found his thoughts going to Dallas and why someone like Dr. Killian would be interested in him. He'd bet his life savings she wasn't a rock fan. Was she after Dallas's money and the glory of being married to a celebrity? He didn't think so.
What if there wasn't a song? What if he was spinning his wheels for nothing? No, there had to be a song. Would Dallas have hidden it? Would he have given it to someone to safeguard? To his knowledge the only person Dallas had ever trusted was Billy Sweet. Did Dr. Sara Killian have the song, and was she going to keep it until just the right moment, or would she announce she had it and get a bidder's war going? “The very least you could have done, Dallas, was to leave me a clue, something to go on,” he muttered.
When Adam finished the coffee in his cup, he stomped into the house for a refill. What was really bothering him was that he'd found himself
attracted
to Sara Killian yesterday. When she'd calmed down, he'd seen a peculiar glint in her eye he couldn't identify. He'd felt rather buoyant after that.
“Anything in particular you want me to do today, Adam?” Tom called from the pool deck.
“I'm going out for a Christmas tree around noon if you want to come along. I have some things to take care of first that will take all morning.”
“Jeez, that's my favorite thing to do. Take your time. I'll forge ahead with my training. Do you need any help decorating the tree? More to the point, do you have any decorations?”
Adam grinned at the wistful look on Tom's face. “Absolutely I need help. I'll call someone and order everything. Listen for the gate buzzer, okay?” The grin stayed with Adam as he tried to visualize the stunned surprise on the trainer's face when he presented him with a brand-new Dodge Ram van on Christmas morning. Dallas wasn't the only one who was generous.
Adam dived into the mess in Dallas's bedroom. It was after ten before he had all the files back in place in the office. He removed the contents of the desk to carry to his own room. The pile was small and consisted of Dallas's personal checkbook, which he never bothered to balance, loose bills, paid receipts for things he'd bought, scribbled notes, and a small jeweler's box. His eyes started to burn at the sterile, antiseptic life his brother led. Where were all the personal things that made up a person? Where was the junk everyone collected? His stomach became a hard-fisted knot. He wanted to cry for his brother. Hell, he
needed
to cry. He did cry then, hard, racking sobs that shook the bed on which he was sitting. He cried for the would-haves, the should-haves, and the could-haves.
Drained of all emotion, Adam's analytical and methodical mind took over. He found the entry in Dallas's checkbook for the money Dr. Killian had mentioned. He knew in his gut there was no signed promissory note anywhere. Sandi Sims would say the hundred thousand was a gift. If there was no way to dispute it, he would have to write it off.
Adam never had a problem doing two things at once. His left hand pawed through the scribbled notes as his right hand flipped through his file for the detective agency he'd called to run a check on Sandi Sims and Sara Killian. He punched out a set of numbers, his left hand still sifting through the notes. He identified himself when the detective's voice came over the wire. He listened, a frown building on his forehead.
“The doctor is just what she says she is. She has an impeccable reputation. While she was serving her residency, she turned in a colleague for tampering with the drug cabinet on her shift. She was involved in an intimate relationship with the doctor in question at that time. She's a good credit risk, has no driving violations, and her coworkers speak highly of her. Her bank balance is healthy but not robust. She makes her car payments on time and pays her utility bills when they're due. That's it. I'm going to fax you my file on Sandi Sims when we hang up. I came up with squat where Benton Memorial is concerned. No one there will talk. I tried everything. The guy you need to talk with is Harry Heinrick. They call him the Hawk. My bill is included with the fax. Merry Christmas, Mr. Lord.”
“Same to you.”
Adam stared out the window, his thoughts chaotic. The detective had read off his report on Sara Killian but was faxing Sandi Sims report. Now, what did that mean?
In Dallas's attention-getting office, Adam picked the pages from the fax as soon as they slid to the base of the machine. He scanned them, his eyes narrowing. He carried the six-page report back to his bedroom. On the surface there was nothing to get excited about.
Sandi Sims is a professional name of one Mona Wilson. She waited tables, sang in supper clubs, sold used cars decked out in a string bikini, with outstanding sales. She'd attended college for one year, then dropped out, at which point she did the race-car circuit. Could not confirm race-car stint because it appears she used a name other than Mona Wilson or Sandi Sims. At that time, the woman in question had flame red hair. For the past few years she has been linked with a series of older men, most of them “sugar daddies.” One of the daddies paid for some pricey dental work and breast implants. She owns two condos, one of which is rented for a hefty monthly income. She lives in the other. Very luxurious. Both condos are paid for. Her bank account for someone her age is better than robust. She drives a late model 560 SL, compliments of one of the more recent sugar daddies. The bottom line is she has credit cards out the kazoo and the bills are paid by someone other than herself.
 
A scribbled note in the margin of the report read:
 
I think the guy who pays the bills is some high muckety-muck attorney. He pays in cash. Bills run three to five grand a month. The only description I could get fits hundreds of people. Dead end in that respect.
Adam snorted. The report fit half the women in California. He tossed the pages on the bed and dialed Sandi's number from memory. She picked up on the third ring, her voice sleepy-sounding. “It's Adam, Sandi. Why didn't you tell me about the hundred thousand dollars Dallas lent you?”
“He didn't lend it to me. He gave it to me. He told me to do something nice for my parents for Christmas. He suggested a cruise with all the trimmings. Are you saying you want it back? I paid for the cruise and everything. It was a gift, Adam.” All sleepiness was gone from her voice and was replaced with a nasally whine.

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