Nora Roberts - Private scandals

"This is the place for them. Truth or accuracy, which do you want?"

"Both."

"One's not the same as the other, Fran. You've been in the game long enough. Accurately, we don't know. She left early, went out to the lot where her car and driver were supposed to be waiting. Now she's gone. Her driver seems to have vanished into thin air."

She didn't like the cool control of his voice or the workaday hum of his computer. "Then what's the truth, Finn? Why don't you tell me what the truth is?"

"The truth is that whoever has been sending her those notes, whoever killed Lew Mcationeil, Angela and Pike, has Deanna. They've got an APB out on her, and one on O'Malley and the car."

"Tim wouldn't. He couldn't."

"Why?" The single word was like a bullet. "Because you know him? Because he's part of Deanna's extended family? Fuck that. He could have." Finn sat down, drained half his coffee. The shock of caffeine and whiskey spread through him like velvet lightning. "But I don't think he did. I can't be sure until he turns up. If he turns up."

"Why wouldn't he?" Fran demanded. "He's worked for Dee for two years. He's never missed a single day."

"He's never been dead before, has he?" He swore at her, at himself when her color faded to paste. Rising, he poured her whiskey, straight. "I'm sorry, Fran. I'm half out of my mind."

"How can you sit in here and say things like that? How can you work, think about work, when Dee's out there somewhere? This isn't some international disaster you're covering, goddamn it, where you're the steady, unflappable journalist. This is Dee."

He jammed useless hands in his pockets. "When something's important, vital, when the answer means everything, you sit, you work, you think it through, you take all the facts and create a scenario that plays. Something that's accurate. I think Jeff's got her."

"Jeff." Fran choked on whiskey. "You're crazy. Jeff's devoted to Dee, and he's harmless as a baby. He'd never hurt her."

"I'm counting on that," he said dully. "I'm betting my life on it. I need everything you've got on him, Fran. Personnel records, memos, files. I need your impressions, your observations. I need you to help me."

She said nothing, only studied his face. No, his eyes weren't cold, she realized. They were burning up. And there was terror behind them. "Give me ten minutes," she said, and left him alone.

She came back in less than her allotted time with a stack of files and a box of computer disks. "His employment record, resume, application for employment. Tax info." Fran smiled weakly. "I lifted his desk calendars. He keeps them from year to year. They were all filed."

Meticulous. Obsessive. Though his blood iced, Finn accessed the first disk.

"That's his personnel file from CBC. I hope you don't mind breaking the law."

"Not a bit. This application is from April eighty-nine. When did Dee go on air at CBC?"

"About a month before that." Fran reached for the whiskey to unclog her throat. "It doesn't prove anything."

"No, but it's a fact." The first he could build on. "Same address he's got now. How'd he afford a house like that when he'd been working as a radio gofer?"

"He inherited it. His uncle left it to him. Finn, I had to call Dee's family." She pressed a hand to her mouth. "They're getting the first flight out in the morning."

"I'm sorry." He stared hard at the screen. Families. He'd never had one to worry about before. "I should have done it."

"No, I didn't mean that. I just — I don't know what to say to them."

"Tell them we're going to get her back. That's the truth. Fran, see if you can find the date in his calendar when Lew Mcationeil was killed. It was February ninety-two."

"Yeah, I remember." She opened the book, flipped through the pages, skimming Jeff's neat, precise notations. "We had a show that day. Jeff was directing. I remember because we had snow and everybody was worried that the audience would be thin."

"Do you remember if he came in?" "Sure, he was here. He never missed. Looks like he had a ten o'clock meeting with Simon."

"He'd have had time," Finn murmured. "Christ Almighty, do you really think he could have gone to New York, shot Lew, come back and waltzed into the studio to direct a show, all before lunch?"

Yes, Finn thought coldly. Oh yes, he did. "Fact: Lew was killed about seven — that's Central time. There's an hour's time difference between Chicago and New York. Speculation: He flies in and out, maybe he charters a plane. I need his receipts."

"He doesn't keep his personal stuff here."

"Then I'll have to get back in his house. You make sure he comes in tomorrow morning. And you make sure he stays."

She got up, poured coffee into her whiskey. "All right. What else?"

"Let's see what else we can find."

She'd lost track of time. Day or night, there was no difference in the claustrophobic world Jeff had created for her. Her head was cotton from the drug, her stomach raw, but she ate the breakfast he'd left for her. She didn't open the plain white envelope he'd left on her tray.

For a timeless, sweaty interlude, she tried to find an opening in the wall, had pried and poked with a spoon until her fingers had cramped uselessly. All she'd accomplished was to mar the pristine wallpaper.

She couldn't be sure if he was gone, or how long she'd been alone. Then she remembered the television and jumped like a cat on the remote.

Still morning, she thought, her eyes filming with tears as she scanned the channels. How easy it was to time your life around the familiar schedule of daytime TV. The bright laughter of a familiar game show was both mocking and soothing.

She'd slept through her own show, she realized, and choked back a bitter laugh. Where was Finn? What was he doing? Where was he looking for her?

She rose mechanically, walked into the bathroom. Though she'd already checked once, she repeated the routine of standing on the lip of the tub, climbing onto the lid of the toilet and searching for hidden cameras.

She had no choice but to trust Jeff that he wouldn't pry in this room. She slid the door closed, tried not to think about the lack of a lock. And she stripped.

She had to bite back the fear that he would come in when she was most vulnerable. She needed the cold, bracing spray to help clear her mind. She scrubbed hard, letting her thoughts focus as she soaped and rinsed, soaped and rinsed.

He hadn't missed a detail, she thought. Her brand of shampoo, of powder, creams. She used them all, finding some comfort in the daily routine. Wrapped in a bath sheet, she walked back into the bedroom to go through the drawers.

She chose a sweater, trousers. Just the sort of outfit she would pick for a day of relaxing at home. Ignoring the fresh shudder, she carried the outfit, and the lacy underwear he'd provided, into the bathroom.

Dressed, she began to pace. Pacing, she began to plan.

Finn parked his car half a block down, then backtracked on foot. He walked straight to Jeff Hyatt's front door. He didn't bother to knock. Since he'd just hung up his car phone with Fran, he knew Jeff was in the office.

Finn had the extra set of keys Fran had taken from Jeff's bottom desk drawer. There were three locks. A lot of security, he mused, for a quiet neighborhood. He unbolted all three and, once inside, took the precaution of locking up again.

He started upstairs first, clamping down on the urge to dive wildly into desk and files. Instead he searched meticulously, going through each drawer, each paper with his reporter's eye keen for any tiny detail. He wanted a receipt, some proof that Jeff had traveled to New York and back on the day of Lew's murder.

The police might overlook his reporter's instinct, but they wouldn't overlook facts. Once they had Jeff in custody, they would sweat out of him Deanna's whereabouts. He kept his eyes open, too, for some proof that Jeff had another house, a room, an apartment. He might be holding her there.