Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

Angel thumbed through the meager pages of Megan’s file and stopped at one sheet. “No match at the Central Adoption Registry. Too bad.” He looked up. “But I see no court filing to open the adoption file. That’s the next logical step.”

“Megan nixed that suggestion. She believed a court case would be hard to hide from her family.”

He shook his head, tight lipped. “Secrets. Everybody with their damn secrets. Keeps us working, though, huh?”

I smiled. “Sure does. That’s why I couldn’t contact the lawyer who handled the adoption. I have a name—Caleb Moore—but since he was hired by James Beadford he would have been obligated to notify Megan’s father before talking to me.”

“That’s true. So now you’ve learned something about the PI business if nothing else. It’s about pulling rabbits out of sombreros.” He continued thumbing through the file. “What’s this?” He held up Kate’s psychological profile of Megan and the summary of their counseling session.

I told him about partnering up with Kate and my reasons for doing so.

“Smart girl. But that doesn’t help you find people, especially those who don’t want to be found. And I see that in this case you’ve got the birth certificate and little else. Pretty challenging.”

Our waitress passed by, slipping a new carafe of coffee onto the table and nodding when Angel pointed at his empty plate to indicate he wanted another stack.

I poured more coffee. Bad coffee. Weak and ineffective, like I felt.

Meanwhile, Angel took a lipstick mirror from his shirt pocket and removed a molecule of blueberry from between his front teeth.

A lipstick mirror? Who said Vanity, thy name is woman ? “Did you just have those teeth bleached?” I asked.

He grinned. “Friday. Do I look good?”

“You smile like that again and I might need to put on my sunglasses.”

He held the mirror eye level and bared his teeth. “So it’s a bad job? Too fake?”

I laughed. “You’re good-looking enough to make a glass eye blink.”

“Wiseass.” He tucked the mirror back in his pocket and returned to the folder, this time pulling out my copy of the birth certificate. He studied it for several seconds. “At least you got the hospital name, but where is Kingston Bay?”

“Right across from NASA, a town with only about a dozen streets. There’s a good-sized medical facility, though. St. Mary’s. It serves the astronauts and the Clear Lake area.”

“You went there, I assume?”

“Sure. But the administrator I spoke with said their birth records only go back twenty years.”

Angel huffed a sarcastic laugh. “Really? Hospitals do not destroy birth or death records, my friend, so I suggest you return and find someone else to talk to.”

“But why would that man...” I didn’t finish the question because I knew the answer. Why does anyone lie? Because it creates less problems for them than the truth.

Angel nodded sadly, reading my expression. “You see? Everybody lies. But as I tell my son, the truth is worth hunting down. Each nugget you find is like a treasure from God. Our job is to collect those tiny pieces and pass them on to the client. Sometimes those little nuggets turn out to be priceless jewels.”

I smiled. “You have a way with words, señor.”

“One more thing. The birth certificate is a lousy copy. Have you had a good look at the client’s state-issued document?”

Texas does not issue original birth certificates but rather certified copies with the state seal. The last time I saw it was when I scanned Megan’s copy for my files. “No. I thought since all I needed was the hospital and city of birth, then—”

“Get another look at hers.” He stared at me with an intensity that made his velvet brown irises seem almost black. “A good look.”

“Okay. But did I miss something?”

“We all miss things.” He tapped a manicured finger to his temple. “To see the answers you need a clear mind, but a clean copy doesn’t hurt.”

I laughed. “So I did miss something.”

“I do not know, Abby. I can tell you only what I would do if I were you.”

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

I arrived back home around one P.M. and had a message from Quinn Fielder. Sounding polite but authoritative on my machine, she informed me my assistance was needed with some photos taken at the reception. She gave the address of the Seacliff Police Station and told me she expected me by four P.M. at the latest.

Great . Thanks . I poked the delete button. Felt good to delete her. But of course I had to comply. This was about helping Megan, not about my own ego.

I went to my office to put away Megan’s file and found Diva asleep on my desk. She knew the most pleasant spot in this house of chaos, maybe even sensed my new office was where I felt most at home.

The room had been shipshape since the day after I moved in. My work space. All mine. I had moved in Daddy’s computer desk and it took up most of the room, that and his worn red leather wing chair, which I now reserved for clients. I’d mounted his gun case and added my own two handguns to his collection. Since I hadn’t been to the shooting range in over a year, that’s where they belonged. Daddy always said you shouldn’t carry a weapon if you’re not trained or you’re out of practice, and he was right.

I sat on my standard issue but comfortable office swivel chair and lifted Diva into my lap. She tolerated me for twenty seconds before jumping away and hopping onto the windowsill. She inserted herself between the vertical blinds and did some window-shopping for the many birds and squirrels that populated the neighborhood.

After turning on the computer and checking my e-mail, I did a search for Caleb Moore, the attorney used for Megan’s adoption. I wanted to be prepared to act should she change her mind about contacting him. Most firms had a Web site these days, but since Megan was twenty years old, this guy could be retired or dead. Sure enough, when I got a hit on Moore it was for the man’s death notice in the Galveston Daily News archives two years ago. More searching found him to be the attorney of record in the bankruptcy of a local manufacturing plant, but that was all. Literally a dead end.

I sat back, wondering what I should do next. My Internet options were limited. Maybe after I worked at this job for a while, I’d have more courage to deal with the underground searchers, those less-than-legal resources who can gain access to private information in exchange for considerable money. Hacking into closed adoption files was not a good idea for someone working toward a PI license. There had to be a less risky way to get what I needed.

I glanced at the computer clock and decided to let the detecting go for now and head for my meeting with Fielder. But when I reached the kitchen and pulled my car keys from my purse ready to head out the back door, I glanced down at what I was wearing. Jeans and a Houston Rockets sweatshirt. New, expensive jeans since I trimmed down to a size six, but still jeans.

I had to change. And comb my hair. And—wait a minute. What the hell was wrong with me?

I left dressed as I was, before the green-eyed monster had me hunting through boxes for one of my old low-cut, sequined prom dresses.

The sand-colored brick Seacliff Police Station sat on a side street off Highway 146 several blocks from the bay. Sago palms flanked the double glass doors and inside a pockmarked young man wearing the tan uniform I had become so familiar with yesterday after Mr. Beadford’s murder sat at a dented metal desk to my right. The speckled vinyl tile bore grayish mop streaks and untouched grime had collected in every corner. The place smelled musty even though dry hot air blasted from a ceiling vent.