I'll Find You Part 8

"Go back to LA," Callie muttered aloud.

"Eh?" The taxi driver c.o.c.ked his head.

"Nothing. Turn right . . . there."

The taxi swung into the narrow cobblestone street that fronted her building. Callie paid the fare with a surrept.i.tious glance in both directions. No one there, thank G.o.d.

Quickly, she crossed the street and let herself inside. No small boy greeted her as she mounted the stairs, and though she knew she should be relieved that Tucker wasn't waiting outside her apartment, her heart was curiously heavy as she unlocked her apartment door and closed it gently behind her.

The silence of the pastel-green rooms enveloped her. A silence she'd grown familiar with. She headed straight for the shower, stripping off her clothes and turning on the spray as hot as she could get it, which wasn't saying a lot. She stood under the showering water until it was too cold to stand any longer.

Drying off, she wrapped her hair in the towel, then walked to the mirror above the chipped, white bureau. Naked, she could see every bruise and cut. Had that just happened this morning? It already felt like a lifetime ago.

Opening the bureau drawer she dug through her shorts and tops to find the cell phone and checked to see if it was charged. Barely, but enough for what she needed. She placed a call and when it was picked up, said, "h.e.l.lo, Angie. It's Callie Cantrell. Is William in?"

Chapter Six.

West waited in the shadows of Callie's street. He'd seen the taxi turn the corner and drop her off but he'd stayed hidden in the alcove of the front door of one of the buildings. He couldn't see which exact building she'd entered, but he knew it was one of three. As the cab left he moved from his hiding spot, his shoes scuffing on the uneven cobblestones. It was dark and quiet along the street, the sultry evening air heavy with the smell of frying fish and the omnipresent tang of brine lifting off the bay.

He barely noticed. He was in a sullen rage that was almost entirely self-directed. Almost because a portion of his anger was meant for Callie Cantrell. A muscle jerked beside his jaw. Whoever the h.e.l.l she was, she had something to hide, and she'd played him but good. It wasn't often he found himself in this position. He was a pretty d.a.m.n effective investigator and the fact he'd begun to believe her, against all signs to the contrary, stung mightily.

But h.e.l.l . . . he had to let that go.

A light from a third-floor window switched on, spilling a trail of illumination over a wrought-iron balcony and into the street. West's eyes were irresistibly drawn. He inhaled a sharp breath when he saw a female silhouette inside before the tiny gap in the curtains was twitched shut.

Callie . . .

He pressed himself back into the alcove. She hadn't seen him and he wasn't about to give himself away now, not yet. Not until he'd had some time to think.

He was aware that at that moment his interest in her was dangerous. Somehow she'd gotten under his skin in a way he would not have believed possible. A hot awareness licked through him that he recognized as the early stages of desire and he wondered about his own sanity. He had a new understanding as to why his brother had been so enamored of Teresa. Callie might not be Teresa, but she looked just like her. And maybe she knew Teresa, maybe had even posed as her once or twice? There was some reason they were practically twins and both connected to Martinique.

Whatever the case, the woman on the third floor was involved up to her eyebrows, at least at some level; he could feel it.

Callie ran the brush through her wet hair, shooting a glance at the cell phone she'd carelessly tossed on the bed. William had been on another line, and though Angie had a.s.sured her he was very eager to talk to her and would she please, please, please stay on the line, Callie told her to have him call her back. She'd put on another sundress, this one a pale pink that didn't clash with her hair.

Setting down the brush, she walked into the living room, lost in thought. Her eye fell on the tiny gap in the balcony curtains and she stepped forward and switched them closed at the same moment her cell phone started ringing. She hurried back and picked it up on the fourth ring.

"William," she greeted him, but that's all she got out before he ran her over.

"You said you wanted the estate all wrapped up, but there are papers you need to sign to finalize the transfer to Diane and Derek."

"I thought I signed everything."

"We need to straighten this out," he said, sounding on his own path. "Your belongings are still in the house."

"I know." She could imagine Diane and Derek having conniption fits about not being able to take possession of the house. "I've just got a few things to wrap up, and I'll be back."

"Have you spoken to Dr. Rasmussen?"

Callie tried to hide her impatience. Bringing up her psychiatrist was a calculated move on his part. "I am better, William."

"Good. That's good."

"I'll see her when I get back, but being here's been the best thing for me. William, listen," she said before he could hit her with anything else. "Can you find out some information for me about a family named Laughlin who live somewhere around the LA area, I think? Victoria Laughlin is the matriarch. She had a grandson named Stephen who's deceased, and another named West who was with the LAPD up until recently."

"Why do you want to know?"

"I just do. I promise I'll be back soon, but if you could find out anything. Google the names, maybe. I don't have Internet service."

There was a hesitation and she could picture him smoothing the sides of his silver hair. "Sure, I can do that. Is there something I can tell Derek and Diane?"

"Tell them I'll be there soon," she stated flatly.

"Did you know Jonathan took out a mortgage on the house?" he suddenly put in.

"Yes. He took care of all the finances, but yes. He told me about the mortgage."

"You know he wasn't really in a position to mortgage the house," William said. "Legally, the house was in his name, but it should have been in the family trust."

"There's nothing I can do about that."

"Find the paperwork, when you get back. That's what you can do. There was a . . . well, I don't want to call it a mistake, because we really don't know what Conrad had in mind, but Jonathan shouldn't have been able to take out that mortgage."

"All right, I will." She just wanted to get off the phone now.

"I wasn't the attorney when Jonathan's father was alive, but Derek and Diane always had the understanding that the family home was theirs along with Jonathan, and if any of them were deceased, it would not go to their spouses or heirs."

"I know." Callie resisted the temptation to snap back at him. "I'll take care of it all."

"So, you aren't aware of what Jonathan did with the money he borrowed?"

"You would know better than I." William's firm, along with the Cantrells' CPA, had filed their tax return and all the requisite forms.

"Maybe he made an investment of some kind?"

"If he did I don't know anything about it."

"Possibly there's a separate bank account?"

"If I knew anything, I'd tell you. Jonathan didn't share. You know that."

"I do. But I'd like to avert a lawsuit between Derek and Diane and you."

"They're threatening to sue?" She was taken aback. She'd done everything they'd asked of her and more, and she hadn't left until the last t was crossed, the last i dotted, or so she'd thought. They think I took the money, she realized and felt her cheeks warm with anger.

"We're just looking for the paper trail."

"Maybe he spent the money," she tossed out. "He liked nice things."

"When you get back, maybe you could check his papers again."

"Sure." As if she hadn't checked and checked and checked. But this conversation would keep going in circles if she let it, and she wasn't interested in continuing. "See what you can find on the Laughlins. Thanks. Bye."

She clicked off, irked, then made herself think about leaving Martinique and going back to LA. Her chest tightened. She couldn't bear the thought of leaving Tucker, and how could she go now anyway, when West Laughlin const.i.tuted a threat to him?

She paced to the balcony, then back across the room. Was West out there somewhere, even now, waiting for her to show him the way to Tucker's?

Maybe. Probably. If not yet, then he would be soon. He knew approximately where she lived.

Sitting down on the edge of a chair, she twisted the bracelet around her arm. Tucker had given it to her and wouldn't take it back. Had he stolen it from Aimee or his mother? She needed to give it back. Pretty as it was, it was beginning to feel like a curse. She wanted to rid herself of it once and for all.

West waited, wondering if he should confront Callie. It was after six o'clock and he was hungry, tired, and frustrated.

The tea and croissants at noon weren't hanging with him. Now that he knew where she lived, he could probably take a break in surveillance and grab something at one of the cafes that lined the streets down the hill. It kind of looked like she was in for the night, and he probably wouldn't miss anything. Jesus. It was h.e.l.l being a one-man team.

He thought about that last meeting with Victoria, who'd sat straight in her chair at the head of the long, carved mahogany table in the Laughlin dining room, her white hair and cobwebbed, papery skin belied by her sharp blue eyes. West had finally agreed to meet her at the Laughlin Ranch house, which he'd dubbed Laughlin Manor, which had p.i.s.sed her off royally when he'd drawled the name upon entering the place. He hadn't been invited to the house since he was a child, and he couldn't help the desire to behave badly at this command performance.

Victoria had gotten right down to business. "Edmund Mikkels murdered your brother," she'd said in her incisive way. "And Teresa set him up."

"Stephen died in a hunting accident," West had reminded her, but he had straightened in his chair and paid closer attention.

"I know what it looks like. But I'm just telling you, Teresa is behind it. G.o.d knows what she's done with Stephen Tucker."

"You can't start an investigation on conjecture," he had started to say, but she'd cut him off.

"Mikkels is crumbling. With the right amount of pressure, you could get to the truth. No one else around here's interested. The sheriff 's department . . ." She had flapped a hand in the air, dismissing them.

Laughlin Ranch was in the San Joaquin Valley, a little over two hours from Los Angeles. The family raised Angus cattle and sold beef across the nation. It was a huge operation and Victoria had handed over the reins first to Craig Laughlin, West's father, who'd run the ranch until his sudden unexpected death in a hit-and-run accident, and then to Stephen, whom she'd expected to be as dedicated to the operation as Craig had been. But Stephen had only been lukewarm about taking over. He lacked the fervor and true enjoyment his father and grandfather had possessed. In the few times Stephen had met West in Los Angeles before his death, he'd clearly wished for a different life.

"I'm going to join you in LA," he always promised, but it never happened, though it was Los Angeles where Stephen had met Teresa. Stephen had invited West to dinner with him and his fiancee when they were in town one evening, but West had already made other plans.

Victoria had done everything she could at that meeting, trying to get West to bring Teresa to justice and Stephen Tucker to her, but West had really only come to the ranch out of curiosity. He'd purposely slouched against the wall at the far end of the room, his jeans, boots, and two days' growth of beard making the gulf between him and his starchy grandmother appear even wider. He hadn't much cared. He owed the Laughlins nothing and vice versa.

And he'd thought her accusations were bunk.

"Mikkels was a fool," Victoria had told him. "He believed Teresa was an angel. Somehow she got to him and talked him into killing your brother."

"Why would she do that?" West had pointed out.

"I don't know. Maybe you'll learn the reason when you look for the boy."

West had known little about Stephen's wife except that she was very beautiful-and he knew that only because Stephen had sung her praises. Stephen had wanted West to come to the wedding but West had declined. Mixing with other Laughlins was something he avoided at all costs, especially since his father's death.

"I've got a picture of her," she had said. "I had many more but they're missing. She probably took them with her."

Victoria had then spread a number of photographs on the table in front of her. Reluctantly, because he'd felt her pulling him into family affairs against his will, West had walked to her end of the room. One picture was of Stephen with Teresa, the one he'd scanned, cropped, and put on his phone; the rest were of Stephen and a boy of about two.

"Where do you think she went?"

"LA," she had answered promptly. "That's where Stephen picked her up."

West had gone back to Los Angeles armed with the information that Stephen had met Teresa in Santa Monica, at a coffee shop. He'd been in no great hurry as he wasn't sure what he believed, but then he had the falling out with Roxanne and relations deteriorated with Paulsen, and suddenly he was free to look into Stephen's death.

The first thing he'd done was pay a visit to Edmund Mikkels, the neighboring rancher who was "crumbling" from guilt, according to Victoria. West didn't know the man, but when he had said who he was, Mikkels had turned white and had to sit down. "I pray every day that I wake up that it's all been a bad dream," he had told West, swiping at tears with the back of his hands. "Stephen was a good man."

West had asked him about the hunting accident, but apart from the enormity of his grief three years after the fact, there had been nothing that pointed a finger at Mikkels as being in on some wild conspiracy with Teresa to kill Stephen.

West had been pretty sure he was feeding into Victoria's own grief and paranoia and had been ready to say sayonara, when she had admitted that she had given Stephen's personal computer to a local computer expert and asked him to open some files. The guy had easily accessed the files as Stephen hadn't set up pa.s.sword protection on the computer itself. Stephen had kept a file that simply said "Accounts" where he'd listed the pa.s.swords for his two e-mail accounts, bank accounts, online shopping stores, you name it. Most of the pa.s.swords were in code themselves, so Victoria had skipped over those and had directed the expert to open other files. That's how she had come across the list of Laughlin heirlooms categorized with their relative worth. The date on the file suggested it was somewhere around the time Stephen had given Teresa the bracelet and Victoria was convinced Teresa had seen the list and pressured Stephen into giving it to her as a gift.

He had stopped at the ranch after meeting with Mikkels. After explaining about the computer, Victoria had said, "Teresa as good as stole the bracelet. I never said as much to your brother, but he had no right to offer up a Laughlin heirloom. Lord knows what that woman's done with it. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that the rest of the jewelry's still in the safe-deposit box. Stephen was asking about it before she killed him."

"If she wanted more heirlooms, why would she have him killed?" West had tried to reason with her, but his logic had fallen on deaf ears.

"She took the most important one with her. Stephen Tucker Laughlin. He's worth more than all of them put together."

West had been resistant to helping her, but with an insight into Teresa's grasping nature, he'd told her he would see what he could do. He took the computer to a hacker buddy who broke into Stephen's e-mail accounts and learned someone, after his death, was corresponding with someone else in Martinique.

An e-mail that originated from a Fort-de-France Internet cafe had started him thinking he should help find Tucker, if for no other reason than to a.s.sure himself that Stephen's son was all right. But it was Teresa's response that sent West to Martinique: im on my way. take care of t and the b.

West had read that as "take care of Tucker and the bracelet." It boiled his blood to think Teresa was bartering it for Tucker's care. Seeing it on Callie Cantrell's arm had made him see red, and it had been all he could do to keep from shaking her senseless and demanding she turn over Tucker. But she wasn't Teresa, unless Teresa led two lives. She'd said a friend named Aimee had given it to her, but he was almost certain she was lying.

He'd left for Martinique with only half-formed plans in mind: hanging out at the Internet cafe in question, if it still existed; asking questions of the patrons and personnel; showing Teresa's picture around; checking with the local police. He'd called upon Pete Dorcas to help pave the way for him with the local police, but so far that plan hadn't panned out. Dorcas was only willing to stick out his neck so far for West and a call to the gendarmerie was asking too much.

But then he'd gotten lucky, catching sight of Teresa, or the woman he'd a.s.sumed was Teresa, in his binoculars on his second day. If Callie wasn't Teresa, she had to know something about where Teresa was. The bracelet, and Callie's unwillingness to tell him the truth about it, was evidence of that. No other answer made sense.

He ordered a chicken salad sandwich and a bottle of water at an outdoor cafe, wolfed down the sandwich, and drank half the bottle in one gulp. He finished the last swallow of water standing over a recycle bin and then tossed the plastic bottle inside.

Then he retraced his steps to Callie's apartment, checking his phone on the way. It was eight P.M., the dusky, gold evening light a memory. It was still hot, however, and he wondered how long it would be before he got a shower.

He realized her lights were out. Was she still there? Probably. He decided to wait around a while and be certain. A light came on around ten and he saw her silhouette walk through the room, but then she doused it again, most likely returning to bed. Around midnight, West gave up and caught a cab to his hotel. If something nefarious happened in the wee hours of the morning, so be it. But he doubted there was much chance of that happening and now that he knew where she lived, he could start again tomorrow.

Chapter Seven.