For The Love Of Laurel (13 page)

He grinned. “So Auntie likes scotch. Was it your father’s brand?”

“No, but she could afford it. She told me he sent her and her husband a yearly stipend, if you can call half a million a stipend. But they never spent it. It sits in a bank collecting interest.”

He whistled. “Why’d he do that?”

“You’d have to ask him.” She saw the color leave Dylan’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. When are you going home?”

“Awkward segue. What’s it to you?”

“I told you. I’m expected to keep doing what I’ve been doing. We can fly out together.”

“What a thrill.”

Chapter 18

Laurel stood as Mike Branson entered her office. She shook hands with him and invited him to sit down. He took in the particulars of the office in a couple of glances, and then turned his full attention to her. She was sure his reporter’s eyes had missed nothing.

“Coffee?” she said.

“No, thanks. Ulcer has been acting up. It’s good to meet again.”

“Under better circumstances.”

“I hope you still feel that way when you find out why I asked for this meeting.”

“After you left me at the funeral and I saw what you gave me, I expected you to call. When you didn’t, I assumed it wasn’t important.” She opened her desk and took out a piece of paper. “Until I found this.” She pushed it across the desk.

Branson picked it up. His eyes widened. “This isn’t the one I gave you. Where’d you get this?”

“That isn’t important. What is important is how you came to have a copy. And why.”

He handed it back to her. “Have you seen my TV show?”

“I’m afraid not.”

He looked slightly embarrassed. “You think I’m a bottom feeder.”

“Since I haven’t seen the show, it wouldn’t be fair to judge. My housekeeper likes it.”

“Ah . . . that’s good. I can live with a fifty percent rating. Let me tell you a little about myself and the show. I have degrees in communications and journalism. I never anticipated becoming involved in tabloid journalism—yes, I’m fully aware that’s what my show is. I hate the connotation and over the past year have tried to bring some class to it. Whether I’ve succeeded or not is hard to say. Ratings have stayed pretty static.” He took a pill out of his shirt pocket and put it in his mouth. “Antacid,” he said.

Laurel managed not to show her growing impatience. He was a reporter all right. The guy loved to hear himself talk.

He chewed the pill and swallowed before continuing. “Sorry. I’ll make this short. One of my producers gave me the idea of looking into some cold cases around the country that never received any notoriety. Kind of sticking up for the little guy who gets lost in the shuffle because he isn’t important enough to warrant a lengthy, expensive police investigation. I’ve been doing it for several months.”

“Have you solved any cases?”

“Unfortunately, no. That’s why I’m here. It occurred to me that teaming up with a P.I. might speed things along. There would be some travel involved, paid for by the station, of course. Plus we would pay your going rate.”

“Why me?” This might just be a way to stem the boredom that often overtook her and get her away from her re-ensconced apartment dweller.

“Because of the newspaper article.”

“This one?” She picked it up from atop the desk but didn’t look at it. She knew it by heart. “I don’t understand.”

Branson sighed. “I wouldn’t expect you to. My producer’s family owns several newspapers, including the
Clarion
. I can’t begin to tell you how much crap I’ve waded through in the newspaper files in various cities to find stories of still unsolved murders. The story I gave you, I found six months ago. When I saw your father’s obituary, and that he had worked for Chaber Pharmaceuticals, I remembered the article. I thought you might be interested in helping me. Your father might have known those people, at least the husband, since he worked there too.”

“Why would the
Clarion
report it? Chaber Pharma isn’t in Brisbane. Not even close. I would think these people, the Markhams, would live near work.”

Branson shrugged. “Slow news day? Who knows? The point is, they did report it, albeit on an inside page.”

Laurel fingered the article. “Do you have anything more than speculation that my father and Mr. Markham may have crossed paths?”

“Unfortunately, no. But it’s a place to start.”

“An obscure place. Even if we found out they knew each other, how would that lead us to the murderer? For that matter, it’s possible there was a gas leak and the house exploded.”

Branson shook his head. “Don’t forget, they found an accelerant.”

Laurel bit her lip in concentration. “I don’t know the Chabers personally—except their son. I can’t imagine he’d be any help, though.”

“You’re interested anyway, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” she admitted. “I’ll give it some thought and let you know. That’s the most I can promise.”

After Branson left, Laurel sat at her desk and stared at the article. What was the truth? Did Gerald know the Markhams? Had he murdered them? Mike Branson hadn’t broached that possibility, but he didn’t know her father’s history. If he knew or found out, his instincts would surely cause him to wonder or suspect. She could imagine him grabbing onto the idea. She had proof of her father’s profession in a hidden room. No matter how good Branson was at his job, she didn’t think he could get hold of mafia records, if indeed that’s what they were. Whatever her father had done when he was alive, nothing would be served by splashing it all over the country via a second-rate television show.

“Sorry, Mike. I may do more snooping, but it won’t be for you.”

Upset at the very idea her father might have killed an innocent family, she left her office. The elevator descended to the underground parking area. Her high heels clicked rhythmically on the pavement. At the other end of the lot, two men got off another elevator. One of them got in a car right next to the elevator. The other walked away from her and toward a car parked against the far wall, whistling a tune that bounced off the concrete walls and ceiling.

She drove around the ramps until she reached the ticket booth. The woman in the booth glanced at her parking sticker and nodded. As she pulled out into the sunshine, she put on her sunglasses and waited for the light at the corner to change. No way would the cars sitting across the parking lot exit, waiting for the green light, be nice enough to let her in.

Even when the light changed, she had to sit until the exit was clear. A car pulled up behind her. A glance in the rearview mirror told her it was the car the whistler owned. As she turned onto the street, the tune he had whistled went through her mind.

She recognized it, though she hadn’t sung it since fifth grade music class. “Billy Boy.” Unable to recall the words, she hummed the tune.

Chapter 19

“Kraft.”

“Hi, Kraft. This is Avidon. How’d you like to go on a trip?”

“To where?”

“Pennsylvania.”

“What’s in Pennsylvania?”

“Cops. Newspapers. Pharma.”

“You forgot sports.”

“I only remember the important things. You have one chance to say ‘yes’ or I’ll go by myself.”

“It isn’t like you to be so accommodating. What mischief are you up to this time?”

“You’ll have to say ‘yes’ to find out.”

“Has anyone ever had the nerve to tell you what a pain in the ass you are?”

“Probably to my ass, but not to my face. Do you have the nerve?”

“Not if it means having to put up with your less than stellar Tae Kwon Do moves.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you again. Promise. By the way, you’re a pain in the ass too.”

“The difference between us is that I know I am. I work at it. What time do you want me ready and how long will we be gone? Oh, and why are we going?”

“As you said to me, you need to learn to trust someone.”

He laughed. “I hate it when my own words are turned against me.”

“Then be more careful what you say. I have tickets for tomorrow morning. We should leave here by six. I’ve booked the motel. I’ve also made an appointment with a local police detective and that’s the reason you’re going. Bring your shiny badge and be prepared to one-up him if necessary.”

“Sorry, Avidon. I need more info before I put my career on the line.”

“I know. I’ll explain later. I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t important to me. If you decide you’d rather not, I’ll go anyway. Kraft.”

“Yeah, I already know that. I’ll be ready. Avidon.”

Airplanes usually made Laurel sleepy, but not today. After a harrowing taxi ride to the airport—an hour’s ride hampered by the usual morning commute and an overturned semi—she feared they would miss the plane altogether.

When the taxi let them off, they hurried inside. Although they both had a carry-on bag and she had printed out the boarding passes at home, they arrived too late. “We’ll have to catch the next flight. Damn.”

“Give me the boarding passes and just follow my lead.”

They got to security. “Has the flight left yet?”

“No, but it’s too late to board. Sorry.”

Dylan pulled out his ID. “Ask them to hold the plane, please.”

The guard checked the ID carefully and nodded. Since 9/11, all law officers were required to have the word POLICE on their ID, because that word was recognized in many countries. The security guard made a call.

“And the lady?”

Laurel already had her driver’s license out of her purse.

“A civilian who is traveling with me. Government business. Need to know basis.”

The guard stood taller, as if he were honored to be of assistance. “I understand. Are either of you carrying, sir?”

“No.” Dylan held out his arms. Laurel did the same. The guard did a thorough check.

“The plane is waiting, sir. Have a good flight.”

As they walked to the plane, Laurel said, “Was that kosher to ask them to hold the plane when we aren’t on government business?”

“I am. Protecting you is part of it. That’s why you wanted me along, to pull out my creds when needed, wasn’t it?”

Laurel had no answer to that. He was right.

Once they were aboard and seated, Laurel said quietly, “He asked if you are carrying? I assume he means a weapon. What if you’d said you were, or he’d have found one when he wanded you?”

“We’d have missed the plane. I can carry a weapon onboard, but I have to make reservations far enough ahead that I can meet privately with the captain and crew at least an hour before the flight. Lots of paperwork, too. So I don’t do it. But I
can
tell you there is a Federal Air Marshal—most civilians call them Sky Marshals—on board.”

“Really? How can you tell?”

“I know him. And, no, I won’t tell you which passenger he is, so don’t bother to ask. Just be glad he’s here.”

After they were airborne, Laurel looked at the receding San Diego skyline, and then sat back and closed her eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come. Her mind churned. Was this a waste of time? She looked at Dylan. He seemed to be deep in thought. She reached into her purse and took out a prescription bottle. She opened it, shook a pill into her palm, and swallowed it.

“You want some water?”

“I’m okay. Valium. I hate to fly. I always sleep on flights but I need to take the edge off.”

“Sweet dreams.” He took a paperback out of his jacket pocket while she closed her eyes.

It seemed as though she’d only just fallen asleep when she was awakened by someone talking to Dylan. She opened her eyes to see the flight attendant standing in the aisle.

“If you’ll come this way, the Captain would like a word with you, sir.”

Dylan rose and followed the woman. Laurel was curious, but when he returned a few minutes later, all he said by way of explanation was “Business.”

“Whatever.” She pulled her own paperback out of her purse and opened it.

“What are you reading?” He picked up his book.

“
One Hundred Years of Solitude
.”

“Yeah? Is it good?”

“So far. I’m about halfway through.”

“Glad to hear it. I just started it.” He showed her the cover. The title was
Cien años de soledad.

“Oh, God. In Spanish? I knew it. Did you know Gabriel García Márquez was a Nobel laureate from Colombia?”

“That so? Colombia, huh?”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Have you?”

“You first.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t visit the home country of every author I read.”

“That’s not answering the question. If you are reading it in Spanish, it makes sense you might have visited there.”

“Only to you, I’m afraid. Now, why don’t you read your version and let me read mine because about now I could use at least a hundred
minutes
of solitude.” He began to read.

She turned toward the window and opened her own book. After a few minutes, she turned back to him. “I think I’ll take a vacation to Colombia soon. I’ll bet it’s beautiful there. I might go to several countries. Take six months and just tour South and Central America. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“I thought Philly was your idea of fun. Are you telling me this isn’t a vacation?” he said in mock indignation.

“Oh dear. I’m sorry if I misrepresented the situation. Now you’ll probably pout all the time we’re gone. Tsk tsk. Honestly, though, I don’t know why I haven’t done it before. Acapulco, Chichen Itza, Rio, the Galapagos Islands.”

“Okay, those would be interesting places to visit, but Colombia? Home of drug cartels?”
And of your father
.

“People do go there to vacation.”

“Good for them. Personally, I prefer Europe.” He went back to reading his novel.

Laurel tried to read too, but couldn’t keep her mind on her book. Unfortunately, she was entirely too aware of the man sitting next to her. She wondered if he was really reading, or if he, too, could feel the tension.

“You haven’t . . .”

He held up a finger for silence. “Wait till I finish this chapter.”

So he
is
reading. He doesn’t care if I’m here or not. Got it
. She concentrated on the tops of fluffy clouds that floated by outside her window.

“Now, what were you saying?”

She turned to him. “You haven’t asked me why we’re going to Pennsylvania. I thought that’s the first thing you’d want to know.”

“I figure you’ll tell me eventually. Though, I am beginning to wonder what you’re waiting for.”

She took the newspaper article out of her purse and handed it to him.

He read it. “What’s this?”

“The reason we’re on the airplane. At my father’s funeral, a guy named Mike Branson gave it to me.”

“Branson? You know him?”

“No. I didn’t even know who he was until Mari told me. I forgot about it until I was going through my father’s things. I found this.” She handed him the other clipping.

Dylan frowned. “Odd.”

“That was my reaction. Why had Daddy kept it and why did Branson have it as well? I decided it deserved a further look after I talked to Branson.”

“What’s Branson’s interest?”

She explained what the reporter had told her about investigating cold cases. “So if you hadn’t agreed to go today, I might well have asked Mike along.”

“Which probably would have been a mistake, since Mike is a reporter and cops don’t much care for that breed of animal.”

“See? That’s why I asked you along. You’ll have more clout.”

“And here I thought it was my sparkling wit and personality.”

“Well, there is that.”

“What do you think you’ll find?”

Laurel pursed her lips. “I’m not sure. I hope he and Mr. Markham were friends and that’s the reason he kept the article.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“Unfortunately, no. Daddy worked for Chaber, and his job for the company was legitimate. But from all I’ve learned about him in the past couple of weeks . . . not that I want to think what I’m thinking, but the idea crossed my mind and I want to rule it out.”

“You’re thinking the murder was your father’s work.”

“Maybe that’s a stretch, but wouldn’t it enter your mind?”

“Probably, but even if it were true, what good does it do to find out for certain—assuming you even can?”

“Two things. For one, Chaber would be guilty of hiring a hit man—excuse me, an
asset.”

“Hit man is probably the correct term in that case.”

“Oh, I get it. Euphemisms are only for government use. Anyway, at the very least, Chaber Pharma should be investigated.”

“Maybe they were.”

“I doubt that. Who would even make a connection?” She raised her hand to catch the flight attendant’s attention.

“The DEA, for one. I’m not saying they did, but they might have.”

The attendant stopped at their seats and gave a token smile. “Can I get you something?”

“Bottled water?”

“Certainly. Anything for you, sir?”

“I’ll have the same, thanks.”

He turned in his seat and studied her. “And the second thing?”

Laurel hesitated. “Oh. I did say two things. Sorry. The second should be obvious. If my father had anything to do with those deaths, I owe it to their families to make it up to them.”

“You can’t atone for your father. And how do you propose to make it up to them? With money?”

“You make it seem crass, and it is, but people sue for a lot less.”

“Forget it. You will open an even bigger can of worms than you’re already going to do when this plane lands.”

The attendant brought them each an icy bottle of water and glasses.

Laurel thought about what he’d said as she opened the water and took several large sips. Maybe he was right, but she was committed now. She drank half the bottle and capped the rest.

They sat in silence for several minutes. At last, Laurel said, “I should have told you all this before dragging you along. I’ll understand if you don’t want to get involved. I can get you on the next flight home.”

He just shook his head and picked up his book. Taking his cue, she read her own until the drone of the engines made her sleepy. She put the book aside and closed her eyes.

As she began to fall asleep, she relaxed, and her head drooped to one side. She was only vaguely aware of his strong arm going around her so he could support her. Feeling comfortable and protected, she slept deeply for the first time in days.