Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2) (4 page)

“Hang on,” Mia said. She picked up her cell phone, tapped it a few times, and looked at me. “I got an email from Bruce’s dad earlier, but I didn’t see it ’til now.” She took a moment to read it. “He’s coming from the police station, and he wants to hire you and Dean.” She glanced toward the bathroom and leaned in close. “He can definitely afford it, so I hope you’ll accept.”

If he was so wealthy, why wouldn’t he pick more experienced investigators? I’d handled exactly
one
missing persons case, and with all due respect to Dean, his area of expertise was cool spy stuff, not lost grooms. And speaking of Dean, how on earth did he end up with Bruce’s dad?

“I’m not sure…” I began.

The doorbell rang, and Mia hurried to answer it.

“Frank’s here with company,” she called out to Lydia.

I tidied our leftovers and forced a smile as Dean entered with Frank, a short, Daddy Warbucks type with a shaved head, shiny shoes, and snug, dark suit. He walked quickly toward us and held out a hand.

“Nicki, Liz,” Frank said, his handshake so tight I couldn’t wait for it to end. He hugged Mia briefly and asked, “Where’s Lydia?”

“She’ll be right out,” Mia said.

“Lydia and I split when Bruce was little,” Frank explained to me and Liz. “But when the going gets tough, we’re still a team.”

I didn’t think it could get much tougher. I told him how sorry I was about the circumstances.

Dean glanced at the couch, and Mia invited everyone to sit.

“Look,” Frank said. “I asked Dean here because the police are on this, but you two were there last night. You talked with a lot of people, and I want your input. Plus, Nicki’s personally invested, right?” He didn’t give me time to answer. “Dean, what’s your typical fee?”

“I appreciate your confidence in us,” Dean started. “But I can refer you to PIs who are better suited for this kind of work.”

“Great. Maybe I’ll hire them too. But you’ve got a head start. What’s your fee? I’ll pay it plus ten percent.”

“Well, for this kind of case, I’d request a six-thousand-dollar retainer and two hundred dollars per hour, plus costs.”

“Done,” Frank said. “Nicki?”

I was speechless. Dean’s quote sounded high (like maybe he was on something), but I didn’t want to look like an idiot, and asking for time to think would probably annoy all-business Frank. I quoted slightly lower fees and added a caveat about my limited availability due to parenting, which for some reason made Frank smirk.

If he hadn’t sealed the deal with bone-crushing handshakes so quickly, I might have backed out. I also regretted not chatting privately with Dean first. I didn’t like how he jumped on the case without consulting me.

“What’s going on?” Lydia asked suspiciously when she returned.

“Frank hired Nicki and Dean to look for Bruce,” Mia explained. “Are you okay?”

“Excuse me,” Frank interrupted as he stood and straightened his jacket. “I’ve got to head out.” Apparently, “when the going gets tough” only applied to Bruce-related problems. He showed no interest in Lydia’s medical update. “Can I walk you out, Dean? I’d like to have a word with you. I’m sure Nicki needs to get filled in here.”

“Sure,” Dean said, towering over Frank as he stood. “Nicki, call me this afternoon so we can discuss the details.”

“Of course,” I said, thinking,
Darn right I will
.

Dean and Frank made their way out, and Lydia apologized.

“Frank thinks money solves everything,” she mumbled. “And I’m proof it doesn’t.”

“I hope this isn’t too personal,” I said, “but would money help you get a transplant?”

“It pays for my medical treatment and testing,” she said. “But it can’t find me a donor or speed up the process.”

Liz peppered her with questions, such as how long the donor testing took (hopefully less than a week), what the tests were for (mostly transmittable diseases, such as HIV and hepatitis), why they were scheduled so close to the wedding, and what would happen if the transplant was canceled.

“Worst-case scenario, I could die,” Lydia said bluntly. “But right now, I’m just suffering. Some doctors see these transplants as a last resort, so I had to wait until now, after trying almost everything else, to get this done.”

She and Liz seemed unusually comfortable talking about such a difficult subject.

“There’s another option,” Mia said. “But I don’t know if you want to discuss it.”

All eyes turned to Lydia, who thought for a moment before saying, “It’s okay.”

Mia bit her lip. “Well, the transplant can be done at home, without a doctor. That means it could be done without testing, so it could happen more quickly. But obviously, there are different risks.”

“Who would be the donor?” Liz asked.

“Lydia wanted a close biological relative, but right now, that’s not possible. So if worse comes to worst, I’ll do it,” Mia said. “It’s what Bruce would want. He was so close to being approved and doing it himself. I already made an appointment for testing, in case we can wait for my results. If not, we’ll do it without them. I just hope everything comes back normal. You don’t have to be a match, like with other transplants. You have to meet certain health criteria, though, even to get tested.”

“You’re perfectly healthy, sweetheart,” Liz said.

“Well, some people carry C. diff and other stuff without symptoms,” Mia said. “I’m worried about that.” She rubbed her temples and wiped her eyes, which were filling with tears. “This is really too much. I’m sorry, Lydia.” She sniffed. “We need Bruce.”

At this point, “we” included me.
Where are you?
I asked, as if Bruce could hear me or respond. After meeting Lydia, I wasn’t so sure that was impossible.

Before leaving Bruce’s condo, I suggested that Mia gather certain things any investigator would want, much of which she’d already given the police, such as the best possible description of Bruce when he was last seen, including clothing, accessories, tattoos, or other body marks; personal information, such as bank accounts, credit card numbers, medications, and general health; details about his family, friends, associates, possible enemies, and anyone at all suspicious; his computer, social media accounts, and related passwords; locations he frequented and places they’d researched for travel; recent photographs; and names and numbers of anyone involved with the investigation, including hotel security.

I also encouraged her to be forthcoming about any problems in their relationship or Bruce’s life, no matter how hard that might be—or how trivial they might seem. And I gave her and Lydia my business cards.

When Lydia took our lunch remains to the kitchen, I carried what she couldn’t, hoping for a moment in private. She apologized for the interruption, and before she could say “J,” I reemphasized my concern for her, Frank, Mia, and Bruce and asked if she sensed any trouble before the wedding.

She busied herself with cleaning, eyes downcast.

“He was juggling a lot, including my illness, and I feel guilty about it,” she said. Our eyes met. “Maybe he got overwhelmed. I wouldn’t blame him.”

“Do you think that’s what happened? That he got overwhelmed and needed an escape?”

“I wish that was it. Then I’d know he was okay.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

She put one hand on her stomach and rested the other on the counter, and I sincerely regretted my choice of words.

“I told the police that Bruce has a mind of his own,” she said. “But leaving Mia and me on purpose? That’s hard to believe.” She cleared her throat and used a crumpled paper towel to dry her eyes.

“Lydia, this is hard to ask, but if something happened to you, is there anyone who could benefit?”

“You’re asking if anyone would benefit from stopping or delaying my transplant? No. I can’t think of anyone. I don’t have much, and Bruce helps me more than I help him. I’m just so afraid something awful happened.”

“I’m so sorry. The police here are excellent, and I’ll do everything I can to help. You can call or email me anytime.” I placed an extra business card on the counter. “Can I give you a hug?”

“I’d love one,” she said. Her bones were so prominent that I made a conscious effort to be gentle. “Thank you so much. Sometimes I feel like a leper with this disease.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “You need people around you.”

“I know. I’m just terrified. I don’t want anyone else to suffer from this.”

I froze. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to me that C. diff might be contagious.

Lydia winced and exhaled slowly. “Excuse me again. I’m sorry.” She sped away, leaving me in concerned silence.

“Aunt Liz,” I called, doing my own little speed walk. “My babysitter’s expecting me soon. I think we’d better go.”

Six

I asked Liz to drive while I read about C. diff for the second time, now with my family’s health in mind. Had Liz and I exposed ourselves to anything dangerous, other than a possible near miss with my late husband Jason?

Liz was surprisingly calm, perhaps because she visited ill parishioners so often. On a scale from flu to Ebola, I wanted to know where this fell.

“I never catch anything,” she mused.

“I catch plenty of what Jack and Sophie get, and I’d like to know what this is—for us and for the case in general.” After a few minutes of intermittent reading and directing Liz to the sub shop where we’d left her rental car, I summarized what I’d learned. “Okay. You can get C. diff the same way you get other intestinal illnesses, by accidentally ingesting it.”

I looked at Liz, who was nodding distractedly.

“Anyway,” I continued. “Even if it’s in your system, it might not cause problems. But if you take antibiotics, especially ones that kill lots of good stomach bacteria as a side effect, C. diff can get the upper hand. It’s one of the most common infections people get in hospitals. It can be minor—or life threatening.”

“You’re not taking antibiotics,” Liz said, “and you haven’t been in a hospital.”

No, I wasn’t taking antibiotics. But the website said they weren’t always at fault, and hospitalization wasn’t the only other risk factor. I’d just started my research, and while it didn’t scare me, it disturbed me on behalf of Lydia and anyone at risk.

“Antibiotics can also be the cure,” I continued. “Sometimes they’re tried long term. When they don’t work, fecal transplants might be used.”

“Mia says it’s a miracle cure, but some doctors are put off by the ‘ick’ factor.”

“Ickiness aside, apparently it’s highly effective. There are tons of studies looking into it.”

“I wonder why they aren’t testing more donors. Why just Bruce?” Lydia asked.

“This article says insurance doesn’t always cover expenses, so it can be costly, and some patients prefer close relatives as donors. Plus, not everyone qualifies for testing. It depends on a lot of factors. It looks like they usually test one donor at a time.”

We reached the sub shop, where Liz parked next to her rental and turned to me.

“I can’t stay in Virginia, you know,” she said. “My flight leaves tonight.”

“Would you consider staying with us for a few days?”

“I’d love to, but the vestry meeting is tonight, and St. Francis is in the middle of its pledge drive.”

“You wouldn’t want to miss that,” I teased. Encouraging pledges was a challenging necessity each year. Without enough parishioner donations, St. Francis couldn’t afford its mission work, youth group activities, and other critical programs.

“Mia’s in good hands,” she said. “Her parents are fine people, and with Bruce’s dad involved, she probably won’t want for anything.”

“So you don’t think there’s a chance her parents had anything to do with this?”

“Oh, goodness, no! We’ve been close since the ’80s, and we’ve talked at length about Bruce many times, including this weekend. They thought he was a prince, although Mia’s dad is beside himself that her wedding day was ruined. He’s angry, and her mom is worried.”

“Are they staying with her for now?”

“Yes. For as long as she needs.”

“What about Bruce’s relationship with his parents? Has Mia mentioned that?”

“He’s close to both of them. Like Mia said, Bruce runs a company for Frank, and from what I hear, it’s doing well. Frank lives in Florida, but he visits Bruce in Virginia a lot.”

“Does Mia like Frank?”

“She says he’s self-made, and he expects the same from Bruce and everyone else. He can be brusque at times, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I think he cares.”

“And what do you think of Lydia being a medium?”

I held my breath for her response and realized that for some reason, I wanted her to believe in Lydia’s gift. Maybe I saw something “otherworldly” as the only way I’d ever understand parts of life, including what Jason had done to me, our kids, and himself.

“I believe
she
believes it,” Liz said slowly. “And I want to be open-minded.”

Darn. That wasn’t a real opinion.

“So you don’t know what to think?”

“I believe in eternal life, but I don’t know what to believe about mediums.”

Okay. I’d have to decide for myself.

I pulled into my garage, hoping no one would spot me until I called Dean without interruption. All the way home, I’d thought about what to tell him, but I still wasn’t sure.
Could getting into business with each other ruin our chances of getting into a serious relationship? Because that wasn’t a risk worth taking.
Or, more realistically,
I wish you’d consulted me before taking this case.

But I didn’t get to say much, because he apologized first.

“I never expected things to go like that,” he said. “I wish I could have warned you beforehand.”

“How did you even get involved with Frank?” I asked.

“He called my office and said he got my name from the guest list. Mia had told him about us. He asked me to meet you at Bruce’s, and I thought you knew I was coming. But when I realized you had no idea, I texted you immediately.”

“I was surprised you took the case.”

Miffed
was more accurate.

“I’m really sorry about that. You know what? I aimed high with the fee to scare him off. I never thought he’d go for it. We can still back out. I don’t have a signed contract. Do you?”

Heck no. I wasn’t even sure I had a blank contract for this kind of case, and Frank hadn’t given me his card.

“No, I don’t, and I’m not sure what to do.”

The selfish part of me wanted to quit before we started, even though I knew it would hurt Mia and Aunt Liz. I’d rather let them down immediately than fail them later.

The selfish part of me also knew the paycheck would cover a mortgage payment, the kids’ winter sports fees, and repairs on my 100,000-mile minivan. But
all
of me wanted to do the right thing, whatever that was.

“I could take the case on my own,” Dean said, “if that would help.”

“Thank you, really. But it’s complicated because my family is involved.” On top of everything else, I knew my mom would want me to help Liz. It didn’t matter that they weren’t especially close; they were sisters.

“I understand,” he said. “I want to pitch in, but I don’t want to overstep, either.”

Maybe I should take the case alone
, I thought. Maybe Dean was upset with
me
for dragging him into this whole thing.

“Let’s take some time to think about it,” I suggested. “Not too long, though.” The first hours in a missing persons case are critical, and since Bruce had been missing at least overnight and half the day, we were way behind the police.

“Right. I’ve got a meeting at the PI Academy at four, and it’s about which classes I can teach next session. Do you think you can call me before then? I don’t want to commit to anything I can’t make happen.”

I appreciated that. Both professionally and personally, I was only interested in commitment that included follow-through.

“I’ll call you,” I promised.

I knew what I’d probably say, but I wanted to run it by Kenna first.

“Hello?” I called out after turning my key in Kenna’s front door. She and my mom were the only ones with that kind of access to my home.

“In Sky’s room,” Kenna called from down the hall.

“How’d it go?” I asked when I reached Sky’s ladybug-themed bedroom, complete with polka dot curtains.

“We’re fine,” Kenna said, looking up from diaper duty. “Jack and Sophie are in the playroom. Hear them on the monitor?”

I heard giggling, which made me nervous.

“They’re fine,” Kenna said, reading my mind. “Don’t go yet. I want to hear about you.”

I updated her in the most kid-friendly terms possible (avoiding question-triggers like
death
, which no parent wants to discuss without preparation, in my experience).

She finished, washed her hands, and led me to the basement while we debated the pros and cons of working with Dean. In the end, she recommended taking the case.

“Why?”

“Because it’s a win-win-win. You’ll help your family, spend time with Dean, and pay your bills, all at once.”

She set Sky down in the playroom.

“Hmmm. That’s an interesting combination. Speaking of combos, what did the kids have for lunch?”

“Apples and PB&F.”

“F?”

“Fluff.”

I laughed. Fluff was a new one. I didn’t bother to ask if it was on whole wheat.

“Jack? Sophie?” I said, looking around.

Silence. Even more fearsome than giggles.

Sky called out to them too. “Jack? Thophie?”

Finally, laughter from the playhouse.

They jumped out wearing dress-up clothes, which were several sizes too small. Sophie was an overgrown Disney princess in full regalia, and, well, Jack was too. If their goal was “surprising,” they succeeded.

“We had to wait forever for you,” Jack said. “This stuff is really itchy.” He scratched his sweetheart neckline and tottered toward me in blue, sparkly heels. “Can you get me out of this?”

“Definitely,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to use scissors. “Right after I snap a picture.”

I pulled out my phone and preserved the moment for posterity, and that’s when it hit me.
Photos.
Had anyone taken them at the bachelor party? And could I stomach seeing them? We needed everything, including images from the wedding and hotel,
now
—before they were deleted.

Then I realized something even more daunting. Subconsciously, I’d taken the case.
Fluff.
I needed to get in touch with Dean. And my favorite babysitter: Netflix.

People who visit my home with advance notice might call it clean, with vacuumed floors and shiny countertops. That’s because before they arrive, a massive effort takes place that involves staying up way too late and pushing through countless forgotten (okay, ignored) chores. It’s not that I don’t clean. It’s just that as soon as I do, we live all over it, and I’ve moved on to other priorities. Like starting a business and watching reality TV.

Today was no exception. Jack and Sophie’s shoes, jackets, backpacks, and soccer equipment cluttered the foyer, which needed mopping. The dishwasher and dryer were full of clean necessities. The sink and hampers were overflowing with dirty ones.

“Do you guys have homework?” I asked, hoping the answer was
no
. Homework for them was homework for me. When Jack won a “homework completion” award in first grade, I’d almost grabbed it and made an acceptance speech. “Let’s double check your homework folders while we’re standing here,” I instructed.

The kids dutifully shucked their sneakers (my one consistent effort to keep the floors presentable) and dug into their schoolbags.

“I have stuff for you to sign,” Jack said. He handed over a crinkled permission slip and a volunteer form for a Thanksgiving party. Would I make costumes, lead a craft, or provide a dessert? I asked him for a pencil and checked off “cookies,” which would not be homemade.

The field trip permission form was another story. Would I a) let my child be monitored in D.C. by a randomly selected parent while I worried all day, b) travel to and from D.C., supervising other people’s sweeties/potential nightmares, c) provide everything short of Jack’s social security number in case my greatest fears were realized and he fell ill or disappeared, d) pay $20 ($40 if I chaperoned, $50 if I didn’t want my kid to feel left out in the gift shop), or e) forget a-d and embarrass my child, deny him educational fun, and try to live with myself? (Also, could I please pay for a needy child whose family couldn’t afford this trip?) I mentally scheduled half an hour for ethical debate and put “return form” on my unreliable, internal calendar.

Sophie came up with nothing, thank goodness.

“Okay, guys,” I said. “Can you build me a super Lego tower while I make I call?”

“Yes,” Sophie said. “Then I’m gonna knock it down.”

Great. I’d just set them up for an argument.

“How about you
both
build towers and only knock down your own?”

Problem solved. I hoped. They agreed and scrambled down to our playroom while I made a beeline for my home office, which was off-limits to kids unless they were reading or watching TV. Over several years, I’d slowly upgraded it to include framed, nature photographs that stood out against sunshine-yellow paint. Behind my antique desk were white, built-in bookshelves with texts on horrible, fascinating topics I hoped my kids would never notice, including crime scene investigation, homicide, and sex offenders. I kept those on the top shelf while tamer subjects, such as witness interviewing and surveillance, were at eye level.

Below the shelves were cabinets and drawers stocked with files and supplies (a camera, laptop, digital recorder, and pair of binoculars). On my desk was the most expensive computer I could (sort of) afford, since so much of my work involved databases. I rarely bought extended warranties, but I’d purchased one for my desktop—along with various backup systems—in fear I could lose my most expensive and important resources.

I turned it on and watched it hum to life. Then I pumped in my password and created a new folder for Mia’s case. After filling in a standard contract and adding a few details, I decided it was ready. So I took a deep breath and called Dean.

“Hey,” he said. “Any thoughts on the case?”

“Yes, but first I’d like to hear yours.”

“I’m okay with it if you’re okay with it,” he said.

“Same here.” That was kind of an exaggeration. More like,
I’m terrified of it no matter how you feel.

“Then we should go for it. It’ll be good for Sky Investigations, and most importantly, we can try to help your family.”

Try
being the key word.

“I guess the next step is interviewing all the groomsmen,” I said. “I’m hoping they’ll have photos or video of the night.”

“Definitely. Frank’s organizing a meeting, and he’s working on getting copies of the security camera footage, too. That guy’s on top of it. He’s doing everything he can.”

So would most fathers, but Frank’s resources were unusual.

“I hear that’s a lot, at least financially,” I said.

“Yeah. Speaking of finances, he paid for the honeymoon, and he made sure it was canceled. So Bruce won’t be living it up in Hawaii somewhere. At least not on his father’s dime. Plus, he doesn’t think Bruce would leave unfinished business, especially since they have promising deals on the horizon. Obviously, it pales in comparison to leaving a wedding, but still, it’s a red flag. Anyway, Frank got all the groomsmen to stay another night and said he’d cover any costs. He wants us to see everyone tonight.”

Tonight? That was great, but I didn’t know what to think about childcare. Thank goodness I’d mentioned that at our impromptu meeting.

“What time?” I asked.

“What time works for you?”

Gee, I don’t know. Let me ask my imaginary nanny.

“Let me make two quick calls and get back to you,” I said, preparing to call Kenna or my mom. That couldn’t become a habit. Really, it already was a habit; I just didn’t want to ask more of them. Evenings were going to be tough because of the kids.
Maybe Dean and I could work in shifts?
I thought.
And go on lunch dates?
Yuck. I’d never thought about it, but there’s a reason dates happen at night. It’s more romantic, and darkness hides wrinkles.

“Got it,” Dean said. “I understand.”

Maybe Kenna was right. Working together might be easier than planning dates.

Dean gave me Frank’s contact info, and I promised to call back about timing. After pausing to check for Lego disasters, I called Mom, who said she’d come over whenever I needed her. Thank God. Then I emailed Frank a contract and called Dean again.

“We can meet at the hotel whenever it’s convenient,” I said, hardly believing it myself.
If only I could say that more often
—
and with totally different meaning
.

“Great. Frank organized dinner for the guys in a private room, and the hotel has a small conference room for us next door. They’re very accommodating due to the circumstances. It’s not ideal that the guys will be together, but at least we’ll have them all there, and we can talk to them one by one. Does six o’clock work for you?”

“Sure,” I said. “But would you mind emailing me any other details? Or calling back in half an hour? Things are a little hectic here.”

Legos were crashing downstairs, followed by screams of glee or anger, which are strangely similar with kids.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll email you, and I can pick you up at five thirty. Is that okay?”

“Sounds great,” I said. “I’ll be here.”