Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2) (7 page)

Eleven

Thanks to Dean’s goodnight kiss or sheer exhaustion (or the perfect mix of both), I passed out quickly despite my fears about interviewing Eli, leaving the kids in Siesta Key, and having a room near the elevator’s racket.

My wake-up call came at five a.m., and my backup alarm went off a minute later. The experience was so jarring that I longed for my at-home alarm without an “off” button: Sophie.

I stumbled to the bathroom and forced myself awake with a lukewarm shower and sample-size toiletries I hoped would work. I’d been too tired to unpack my shampoo and conditioner the night before.

I saved hair-drying for last, not wanting to disturb my neighbors. It wasn’t until a few minutes into it that I realized something was wrong. My hair was still wet.
What the follicles?

I leaned into the shower to check the products I’d dumped on my head. I thought the clear one was shampoo and the cloudy one was conditioner. My bad. The clear one was a fancy oil treatment. The kind you use
after
shampooing. And the shampoo was still on the bathroom counter.

Now fully dressed and made up, I had a decision to make. I could start the whole process over and be late. Or I could wash my hair under the bathtub faucet and be
less
late. Or I could meet Dean and see if he was into oil slicks. I opted for the faucet and wished I had Palmolive.

Fifteen minutes later—and five minutes late for breakfast—my hair was mostly dry, extra glossy, and heavily sprayed. I needed to avoid open flames. Hopefully no one was firing up an omelet station.

“Hey,” I greeted Dean, slightly out of breath. “I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late. I had a…shower issue.”

“Oookay.”

He wisely saved any questions for Eli, and we grabbed fruit, bagels, and water to go.

Before driving off, Dean called the local police to let them know we’d be parked near Eli’s house. That way, if residents reported our surveillance as suspicious, law enforcement could handle it discreetly instead of blowing our cover.

I programmed the navigation system, and off we went.

Eli’s home was even prettier in person than it was online. The rising sun gave it a warm glow, and I admired prolific red and yellow flowers dotting its exterior. The weather was perfect—sixties with an expected high of seventy-nine. After we parked almost out of sight and cracked our windows, I pulled out our list of questions so we could review one more time.

“Wanna take the lead?” Dean asked. Just like with the groomsmen, only one of us would ask the questions, and we’d switch midstream if Eli seemed uncomfortable.

During a year of basic but new-to-me PI tasks, I’d found the best way to calm my nerves was to act confident, no matter how I felt. I had plenty of real-life role models, including Kenna and Sophie. But sometimes it took channeling my inner Beyoncé.

“Sure,” I said, handing him the list. “Let me know if I miss anything.”
And please, call me Bey.

Since PI notes can end up as evidence in court, I joked with Dean about being neat and accurate. We’d emailed throughout our relationship (definitely no love notes), so I wasn’t familiar with his handwriting, but my kids had better penmanship than most adults I knew.

We bantered back and forth, trying to ease tension, but my muscles were still knotted, just like my stomach. If Dean hadn’t been there, I would have done some deep breathing. Instead, I took one silent, cleansing breath and clenched and unclenched my fists a few times. I’d never played in a “big game” (unless you counted a triple-tiebreaker I’d had with Jack in “War”), but this felt like one. Time to show up or go home.

My sensible flats clicked as we strolled up Eli’s stamped-concrete walkway. Dean pressed the doorbell, and I smiled nonstop, wanting to look as warm and open-minded as possible.

A dog barked inside, sounding small and powerless in a hollow foyer. Through a frosted glass oval, I could see scruffy brown fur and tiny nails scratching with intensity. I was slightly relieved, because pets—while they can be occasionally annoying or dangerous—provide an opportunity to connect with interviewees. If animals (and kids, for that matter) sense you’re okay, you’ve got a chance.

“Are you a dog person?” I whispered to Dean.

“Today? Yes.”

A blurry figure approached and leaned down. Then Eli opened the door and peeked out at doorknob level, restraining the puppy by its tinkling collar.

“Can I help you?” he asked. He rose and cuddled the pup to his chest. “It’s okay, Muffy. Settle down.”

I made introductions and explained our visit. In short, we were private investigators looking into the disappearance of Bruce Fallon, and although we knew the police had already come by, we were focused on the truth, not just finding culprits, if there were any. We wouldn’t take much time, I promised. We valued his perspectives and would treat him fairly.

Eli scratched Muffy and inspected us. I gave them both understanding smiles, offered to show him our IDs, and waited a beat.

“Fine,” he said. “Come in. I’m finishing breakfast before work, so this has to be brief.”

“Thank you. We won’t take long.”

That was a fib. I had no idea how long we’d chat. But I’d take whatever we could get.

As soon as Eli turned down a hall with Muffy, I glanced around nosily at tennis trophies, dog leashes, abstract art, and framed photos of a young woman I guessed was Andrea. Now that we were inside and somewhat vulnerable, I wished I’d asked Dean if he was carrying. In fact, I should have asked him when he was at
my
house. I wasn’t a fan of guns. Until I was in mortal danger. Then they were the only thing I wanted. It was confusing.

“Muffy is adorable,” I said. “What breed is she?” She looked like a four-legged teddy bear. I pushed away thoughts of Super Teddy and the kids.

“A Norwich Terrier,” Eli said as we entered the kitchen, where a half-eaten cup of yogurt, a bowl of fruit, and a glass of orange juice were waiting. I was almost surprised there wasn’t a maid or cook. His house was perfection, including the sparkling pool outside the kitchen’s sliding glass doors, which opened to the morning breeze.

Eli wore khakis, a pink button-down, and a multi-colored tie—the pink setting off his silver hair and baby blue eyes. It was hard to imagine him as part of a bloody crime scene—or any crime, for that matter, unless it was related to money or catalog modeling.

He offered us water and welcomed us to sit anywhere, gesturing to empty chairs around a white kitchen table.

Anywhere?
Since humor (not water) eases my nerves, I imagined taking his chair and starting to eat his breakfast (mine had been pretty skimpy), but then I had to stifle a smile, which made me even more nervous. Inside, I was deadly serious and truly concerned about Eli’s daughter, but my brain wasn’t cooperating.

We declined water and made ourselves comfortable, and I forged ahead while he took a bite of cantaloupe.

“As I’m sure the police told you, Bruce Fallon disappeared recently. I understand you have some history with him. Can you tell us about that?” Oops. That was like asking the kids, “Can you please eat your veggies?” Too easy for them to say
no
.

Eli set his jaw and paused. “I don’t like to discuss that.” Hmm. A grownup
no
. “But I would like to know who hired you.” With a comeback.

“I wish we could say,” I said, glancing at Dean. Frank had asked that we keep his name out of things unless necessary. “But I can tell you that our only goal is to uncover the truth.”

“Oh. You want the
truth
.” Eli grimaced. “The truth is that Bruce Fallon is a depraved, cowardly rapist who deserves to be shot, and I hope he rots in hell one day.”

Oh. Okay. A couple clues there. Talking about Bruce in the present tense.
Good.
Wanting him dead.
Completely understandable, but suspicious.
Being so…candid.
Helpful.

“We’re so sorry about your daughter,” I said. “Clearly, you’re convinced that Bruce is guilty.”

“Everyone is convinced,” he said. “But he got away with it so Smyth could preserve its mediocre reputation. Meanwhile, Andrea will never get over it, and he gets to move on as if nothing happened. What kind of justice is that?”

“It’s not justice at all,” I said. “As a parent, I can only imagine how that would infuriate me.” Dean nodded in support. “Let’s talk about the last time you saw Bruce.” Eli stared at me. “When was that?”

“I’ll tell you exactly what I told the police. Andrea saw his engagement announcement in the paper months ago, but she waited to tell me about it. When I heard the news, I found Bruce’s number and told him he better call it off. It was obvious he wouldn’t, so I booked a flight to Virginia.” He pointed his spoon at us. “That man should
not
be allowed to marry anyone. He should be in prison.” He dropped his spoon on the table, and it took effort for me to blink rather than flinch.

“When was your flight to Virginia?” I asked.

“The day before Bruce’s non-wedding. I’m sure you know that.” He put both hands on the table. “You know what? I don’t want to answer more questions, and I’m late for work.”

Oh, no. What had I done?
I looked at Dean.

“Mr. Morgan,” I started. “Whatever happened in Virginia is understandable because of what happened to your daughter. And finding Bruce is the only way we can hold him responsible for anything.” Unless Eli had already accomplished that on his terms. I was tempted to tell him about Lydia, but it was too personal. Plus, he’d learn soon enough if the media got hold of the story.

He looked at his gold watch.

“I’m going to tell you three things for my daughter’s sake. One, I met with Bruce the night before his wedding and told him I was going to publicize his past, which he obviously hadn’t shared with his fiancée. I gave him a chance to call off the wedding before that girl’s day—or life—was ruined. Two, I would never physically hurt Bruce, only because my daughter needs me more than I need justice. And three, Bruce tried to pay me off—with fifty thousand dollars I don’t need—to shut me up. When I left without it, he was fine. And when I showed up at his wedding the next day, he wasn’t there. I thought it was mission accomplished. Maybe he took the money and bolted. I don’t know. Now I’ve got to go, and so do you.”

He was shaking, and I was afraid to say anything. So I took out our business cards and slid them onto the table.

“We’re extremely grateful for your help.” I didn’t want to keep talking, but I had to. “We want the facts about Bruce’s past, not just the Smyth College version.” I let that sink in. His face and neck were red with emotion, but he didn’t say a word. “Is there anyone you think we should speak with?”

He was quiet.

“Finding Bruce will ensure he doesn’t escape some important obligations at home,” Dean added. “He left more than one woman in Virginia in a difficult situation.” Unless he knew something I didn’t, that meant Lydia and Mia.

It was so quiet I could hear a clock ticking on the wall. Exactly four seconds went by. We all looked at Muffy as she perked her ears and stood on her dog pillow. Then she barked, and the doorbell rang.

She got to it before Eli, making her the first to officially greet the police.

Twelve

We could see their uniforms through the door.

Eli looked at us as though we could offer some guidance. When that didn’t happen, he yanked something out of his pocket, which turned out to be a card and pen, thank goodness. In that moment, Dean’s stance shifted, and he looked ready to pounce. Either he had great restraint or he wasn’t armed.

We both relaxed as Eli jotted something on the card and practically threw it at Dean, who was closest to him.

“Call my daughter and my ex. Tell them I need their help. Please.”

I guess he knew what was coming, which made me wonder what else he knew.

Watching someone get arrested is awkward. I mean, where do you look? What do you do? (Other than take a video and post it online like everyone else.) It would be rude to just walk away with a wave. (“Sorry you’re getting arrested! Call you later!”)

So we headed for the sidewalk and inspected the card Eli had shoved at us. It was interesting, since it included his contact information, title (VP at the bank), and what he’d jotted down—his ex’s name (Suzanne) with her cell number, and Andrea’s name and number.

After Eli was carefully loaded into a cruiser, we spoke with one of the officers, who wouldn’t share much except that Eli would be taken to the local station and eventually to Virginia.

“That was interesting,” I deadpanned as we slid into the rental.

“What did you think of him?” Dean asked.

I thought he was guilty—but maybe only of being an angry father. It brought back memories of when a boy hit Sophie at the playground, and his dad said Sophie “had it coming” for refusing to share her toy. The rage I felt was so powerful that I scared myself. What startled me even more was realizing other parents had the same protective, killer instinct. Lesson learned: Don’t mess with people’s kids. Some of us may kill you—or at least think about it.

Which made me consider Eli again.

Anything was possible.

“I don’t know,” I told Dean. “He was angry enough to fly to Virginia.”

“Exactly. Which is pretty angry.”

“I want to see that engagement announcement again and search for old articles about Smyth,” I said. “We have to call Andrea first, though. She should know about Eli, and we need to get to her while we have the chance.” I paused. “By the way, do you carry a gun?”

“No,” he said, grinning and handing me Eli’s card. “Do you?”

“No. But when he pulled this out, I got nervous.”

“Me too. I’m almost glad I didn’t have one. Why don’t you call Andrea?” he asked. “I think she’d rather talk to you than me.”

With that vote of confidence, I started dialing.

Three numbers in, I changed my mind. I wanted to call the police first and find out when and how Andrea could get access to her dad. If we could help her through the process, maybe it would calm her down and make our conversation more productive. Second, talking with her in person would be best.

Dean agreed.

While I called the station, Dean whispered that he was going to knock on a few neighbors’ doors and ask about Eli. I nodded as an officer explained that Andrea wouldn’t be able to see her father for hours, because booking would take a while. Then I hung up and tracked down her most likely address, which wasn’t far away.

When I got out to catch up with Dean, who was already chatting with someone two houses away, I heard a familiar bark. 
Muffy.
 I shielded my eyes and squinted, looking around for the adorable pup, who must have escaped in the commotion of Eli’s arrest.

I realized the sound was coming from Eli’s side yard, which was out of Dean’s sight. As I hurried around the corner, Muffy saw me and darted across manicured grass toward the back. The closer I got, the farther she ran.

Since I knew more about catching criminals than catching pets, I pulled out my phone, texted Dean, and consulted Google. Apparently, upright people, eye contact, sudden movements, and loud voices are terrifying to skittish dogs—not comforting, so I walked slowly, kept Muffy in my peripheral vision, and sat down quietly, praying she’d stay out of the street.

I also checked online for more advice.

What I found was disappointing, because it recommended eating loudly, preferably from a noisy, crinkly bag—and hoping the dog would get curious. That meant I’d have to fake it—certainly my most embarrassing pretext ever.

“Mmm, nummy yum,” I said, crinkling a piece of notepaper from my pocket and pretending to shove irresistible food in my mouth. Then I “dropped” some of it and “ate” it off the ground. (That was the bonus of faking; all imaginary food was edible.)

Please
, I thought,
don’t let Dean see me like this.

Muffy caught on quickly but took her time coming over. Now
she
was the investigator. When I thought she was close enough, I reached for her collar, making soothing noises while I pulled her into my lap.

“Sorry I don’t have any real food,” I murmured. “It was for your own good.”

I carried her to the sliding doors I’d seen open in the kitchen. I slid the screen sideways and, in the absence of beeping alarms, closed it behind us and set Muffy down. Then I ensured the front door was closed to prevent further escapes.

I knew I should go right back outside, but it was tempting to move slowly, taking time to note anything helpful. I made my way down the hall we’d used before, stopping to peek into a laundry room with a bleach-white industrial sink and a table for folding clothes, on which an empty suitcase rested. I wondered if Eli had washed or thrown away any evidence. It appeared the trash had been recently emptied. Next was a bathroom, which was more beautifully decorated than any room of mine. I couldn’t help taking a closer look at a medicine bottle on the counter, which indicated Muffy, not Eli, was taking an antibiotic.

Before I could step out, I heard clicking down the hall. Louder clicking than I recalled from Muffy’s nails. Clicking that reminded me of women’s shoes. Without thinking, I moved between the toilet and a large, white storage cabinet. My heart raced while I silenced my phone and considered what to do. I could text Dean and ask him to come to the door, distracting whoever had entered. Or I could be honest and tell whoever it was that I’d rescued Muffy.

I decided on the latter, but it was too late. A middle-aged woman with a basket of cleaning supplies walked in. She didn’t look directly at me, but she did something worse. She saw my reflection in the mirror, screamed, and ran.

Just like with Muffy, chasing seemed to make things worse, but I had no choice. I just prayed she or Eli didn’t have a gun, although that would have been an interesting discovery.

“Wait!” I called. “I was visiting Eli, and Muffy got out, and I was just returning her. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She stopped in the foyer and held her chest, breathing hard.

I held out my hands in a peaceful gesture. “Please forgive me. Are you okay?”

“Where is Mr. Morgan?” she asked.

“We had a meeting, but he had to go out unexpectedly. It was an emergency, and when he left, Muffy ran out. So I brought her through the kitchen door. It was open.”

“Why were you in the bathroom?” she asked.

“I needed to use it,” I lied. “I’m really sorry I scared you. You’re totally safe. I promise.”

She shook her head and laughed with relief.

“You’re lucky you didn’t scare Mr. Morgan, with his temper.”

“His temper?”

“Oh, never mind. I shouldn’t have said that. He yells if I make a mistake, but it’s my fault. I write down everything now so I don’t mess up.”

“I doubt his yelling is your fault. When was the last time he lost his temper with you?”

“Months ago. Please, forget I said anything.”

I asked a few more questions and confided in her that his “emergency” was being arrested.

“Mr. Morgan?” she asked, appearing shocked.

“Yes. Have you noticed anything suspicious?” I asked. “Any signs he might be in trouble?”

She assured me she hadn’t. She said she only worked once a week, so she rarely saw Eli, which she appreciated. She didn’t even know he’d been gone.

“I won’t tell him what you said,” I assured her. “If there’s anything the police should know about him, give them a call. They may even be back here soon. I’m looking into his background also, so please get in touch with me too.”

We exchanged cards, and I let myself out the back door, waving a silent goodbye to Muffy and reminding myself to make sure someone cared for her while Eli was gone.

I found Dean walking back toward the car, eager to tell me that two neighbors had described Eli as formerly social—often the first to organize a block party or barbeque. But since the time of Andrea’s alleged rape (of which they seemed unaware), he’d become distant and moody, and it had only worsened after his divorce. Both neighbors were curious about the morning’s police activity, but Dean referred their questions to the officer we’d met. Given what he’d learned, the maid’s description of Eli’s temper seemed accurate.

“That was really risky going back into his house,” Dean said. “We could have taken the dog to the shelter or something.”

I was more than embarrassed. Curiosity and love for animals had gotten the best of me.

“You’re right,” I said. “But at least we know Eli has a long-standing temper.”

“Right. Now let’s go see what his daughter has to say about him.”

Andrea lived in a large complex of almost identical three-story, ivory buildings. I knocked on her door and stood directly in front of the peephole, not wanting her to see a strange-looking man with me. (Everyone looks strange through a peephole, even Dean.) After two minutes of knocking and waiting, we doubted she was home, so I slipped my card under the door with a note for her to call as soon as possible.

As we walked down the steps away from her second-floor unit, a door opened behind us. Dean and I looked at each other—and then back at the door—where Andrea was leaning around the jamb, glancing at my card.

“Hello?” she called.

“Hi,” I responded. “Thanks for answering.”

“How can I help you?”

“We just came from your Dad’s house nearby,” I said. “We were talking with him about his recent trip to Virginia, and he told us how to reach you.”

“Oh,” she said, stepping out with her keys and phone. “Do you mind if we talk outside? There are some benches out front.”

Good for her. I didn’t think she should invite us in, either. I needed to overcome my protectiveness, at least of other people, if I wanted to do this job properly.

“Sounds good,” Dean said.

We all shook hands and introduced ourselves.

“I’m surprised my Dad gave anyone my address,” Andrea said as she followed us down the stairs. “Usually he’s ultra-protective, so I almost don’t believe you. What’s this about?”

“Actually, he only gave us your phone number,” I admitted. “But we wanted to talk to you in person, so we found your address. I hope you don’t mind.” I let her pick a seat, and then I sat beside her. Dean took the bench across from us. “Are you aware of the trip your dad took to Virginia recently?”

“To see Bruce Fallon? Of course.” She rolled her eyes. “I know my dad cares, but...Why are you looking into it, anyway?”

So she didn’t know Bruce was missing.

“Well, sometime after they met, Bruce disappeared.”

“I’m not surprised. My dad thinks he talked him out of getting married. So he probably just took off.”

“That’s what your dad told us, too. But later, Bruce’s car was found empty, with evidence of a struggle. Because your Dad saw Bruce around that time, it raises questions about their meeting.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“I know. I’m sorry.” How many times was I going to say that? Did it even help anyone? I hoped so, because I had to say it again. “And I’m really sorry to tell you this, but while we were talking with him this morning, he was arrested.”

“What? What do they think he did?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“This is ridiculous. He would never do anything to Bruce other than talk to him.” She didn’t sound convinced. I could almost hear an unspoken
would he?
at the end of her sentence.

“Has he left you any messages or anything?”

“No. I don’t think so.” She looked at her phone and frantically tapped the screen. “No. I don’t have any messages. And I don’t have a landline anymore.”

“I don’t know much about the booking process, but they’re taking care of it now, and you may hear from him before too long. I think he’s allowed to make a few calls. I don’t think you can see him for a few hours, though.”

“What should I do?” She looked back and forth between us. “Should I call a lawyer?”

“Does he have one?” Dean asked.

“Only a divorce lawyer,” she said. “I mean, that I know of.”

“Well that’s a starting point,” Dean said.

“I better go,” Andrea said, standing up. “Thank you for telling me all this.”

“He wants his ex-wife Suzanne to know, too,” I said.

“That’s my mom. I’ll call her. She’ll definitely have his lawyer’s number.” Her tone was sarcastic.

“Andrea,” Dean said, focusing his blue lasers on her. “I know it’s awful timing, but we’d like to ask you a few more questions when things settle down.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I have questions for you, too.”

I thanked her, apologized again, and watched her go.

Dean and I called Frank, who hadn’t heard about Eli’s arrest yet. It literally took his breath away. He was almost as stunned about the fifty thousand dollars Eli had mentioned, and he said he’d look into it immediately.

“Do you have any loose ends in Florida?” he asked.

“We do,” Dean said. “We’d like to stay and finish what we started, just in case we come up with anything. An arrest is not a conviction, sir, and our priority is finding your son.”

Sir
was a nice touch.

“Fine,” Frank said. “And there’s something else you need to know. Don’t call Lydia. She was admitted to the hospital with dehydration this morning. Mia’s with her.”

“Is she okay?” I asked. “I mean, is it just dehydration, or…”

“I don’t know, but she needs to focus on her health. The police will update them soon enough. I’m just not sure Lydia can take it, and I don’t know if Mia can keep anything from her.”

That put me in an awkward position. I wanted to update Mia immediately, but she hadn’t hired us; Frank had. What we learned was only his to share.

Dean and I stopped at the hotel, combed through crime stats and newspaper websites, ordered pizza, and called Detective Allen, who wasn’t available. I checked on the kids (Jack was tired after a fitful night without Super Teddy), which reminded me of another mistake I’d made: I hadn’t mentioned Muffy to Andrea. It was a small detail, but a valid excuse to call her.

“Andrea?” I said when she picked up. “It’s Nicki Valentine, the private investigator you met this morning.”

“Right,” she said. “I got my dad a lawyer, and she’s at the station now. Thanks for letting me know what was going on.”

“Did you talk with your mom?”

“Yeah, but she’s not a big help. They don’t talk much since they got divorced.”

I made sure Muffy was taken care of, and then I broached the subject I wanted to avoid.

“Andrea, the last thing I want to do is make you think about Bruce, but you said you had some questions for us.”

“Bruce should be in jail,” she said quietly. “But if he isn’t, I want to know where he is.”

“Oh,” I said, beginning to understand.

“I want him as far from me as possible.”

“That makes sense. Do you think he’d come here?”

“I’d rather talk to you in person without your partner. You know what I mean? Could we talk alone somewhere?”

“Sure. Do you have anywhere in mind?”

“Actually, I do. There’s an outdoor café on the corner of Tally and Main. Do you know where that is?”

“No. But I can find it. What’s the best time for you?”

“Five o’clock. It’s called Coconut Coffee.”

“Great. I’ll be there, Andrea. See you soon.”

Before the meeting, Dean and I pored over everything we’d found online, starting with the engagement announcement:

Brenda and Michael Gordon of Lynchburg, Va., announce the engagement of their daughter, Mia Gordon, to Bruce Fallon, son of Frank and Lydia Fallon, of Smyth, Fla., and King County, Va., respectively. Mia is a graduate of Maryland State with a B.S. in communications, and Bruce is a graduate of Maryland State with a B.S. in marketing. The future bride serves on the board of The National Unwed Virgins Association (NUVA), and the future groom is the CEO of PreTechTion, Inc. A November wedding is planned at the The Emerson Inn in King County.