Doubt (Caroline Auden Book 1) (14 page)

Henrik keyed in Caroline’s e-mail, stabbed a button on his phone, then jammed it back into his pocket. He ran two paint-spattered hands through his hair.

“I hope you find her. Because Lord knows, I can’t get any fucking closure now.” To prove his point, the artist stalked over to an armoire standing in the corner of the vaulted space. He threw open its door, revealing women’s clothes on hangers, shirts folded on shelves, and, on the floor, a neat row of women’s shoes.

“It’s like someone died around here,” he ground out, “but not really, because I don’t know where she went and I can’t be sure she isn’t coming back. I can’t get rid of her stuff. I can’t move on. I can’t do anything.”

Even as she thought of how to soothe the raging tornado in front of her, Caroline scanned the contents of the armoire beside him. Tucked among the shoes, she noticed a striped tube with marks on it. She squatted down and lifted up the object, holding it up to the light. The tube was clear.

“What is this?” she asked.

“A flowmeter,” Henrik said, the request for information grounding his swirling discord. “It’s one of Nolan’s. That’s Annie’s five-year-old son. He’s a really special kid.”

“Five years . . . that’s before you began going out. He’s not yours?”

“No, but I love him like he’s my own. I can’t believe he’s fucking gone, too.” Henrik’s pale eyes flickered up toward the ceiling of the loft, as if begging indifferent angels to help him out.

“And he’s got asthma?”

Henrik nodded his large head. “When he’d get asthma attacks, we’d use a flowmeter to check how much oxygen he was getting. It was pretty scary. It got a lot better when Annie got Nolan into that drug trial last year.”

“Drug trial?”

“A clinical trial,” Henrik said. “For a new asthma medicine. It’s called Telexo. It might get approved by the FDA next year, but for now, it’s only available to people in the drug trials. We spent some scary nights in emergency rooms before that drug came along. It was a godsend.”

Caroline considered Annie’s disappearance in light of this new information. Leaving town was one thing. Leaving town with an asthmatic five-year-old dependent on an experimental drug protocol was something entirely different. If Annie had fled, she must have really believed her life was in danger. She would have weighed the stress on a child of leaving school, his neighborhood, and everyone he knew against . . . survival.

“When did Annie disappear?” Caroline asked.

“Right after her boss died last month. Like two days later. She packed up some stuff for her and Nolan, and just . . . left.” Henrik’s eyes began to tear. He wiped the offending moisture away with the back of his hand. “If you find her, just remember to tell her that I’d like to talk.”

The big artist sat down at the dining room table and buried his face in his hands.

“I can’t believe this fucking happened to me,” he said, his big frame shaking with pent-up emotion, though he still would not allow himself to cry.

Caroline took a step toward him, her hand reaching for his shoulder.

“I’m sorry—”

“Please leave,” Henrik growled, jabbing one long finger at the door.

Without another word, Caroline slipped quietly out of the loft.

Frustration welled in Caroline’s chest.

Louis handed Caroline a ream of hand-marked pages. “As soon as my edits are in, I want our brief out the door. If it isn’t filed by four o’clock New York time today, the district court will bounce it. That gives you an hour.”

Caroline frowned. Of course she knew the deadline. The last few days had been laser focused on getting the brief filed. Ever since she’d gotten back from her unfruitful visit to Henrik’s loft, she’d been pushing hard to write the inferential reasoning section and get the
Daubert
brief filed. Louis’s last-minute rounds of edits to her argument had made her scramble, but she still had time to make the filing deadline.

“I’ll get it done,” she said, controlling her annoyance. She knew her reaction to her boss’s tone had more to do with her own failures than anything he’d said.

“I’m going to go to the club first thing tomorrow morning to look around. I’m not giving up on finding the article. The court will still accept scientific evidence until tomorrow afternoon,” she said.

“Fine,” Louis said, waving one hand. “It’s just a shame you failed to arrange to search that social club any sooner.”

Caroline’s face flushed. “I’ve done everything I could to get in there.” And she had. Leery of calling Yvonne, she had sent her a letter by overnight messenger, begging Yvonne to arrange for her to come to the club. She had just about given up hope of receiving a response when a short note had arrived at the office via snail mail. On a milky-white embossed card, the note stated only:

All set for BABC Oct. 6, 8:30 a.m.

She forced herself to take a breath. “We still have time. It isn’t too late.”

“Indeed,” Louis acquiesced. “And I do appreciate your commitment to this case.”

“Thanks, but my commitment to the case means nothing if I can’t find that article,” Caroline said quietly. She expected more of herself. So did Louis.

She stepped up to Louis’s desk, extending a piece of paper toward her boss. “This is the signature page for the brief. You can sign it now. Then, once I get your other edits in, Silvia’s standing by to scan the whole thing and upload it onto the district court’s e-filing system.”

But Louis didn’t take the page from her.

“You should do the honors,” he said instead.

Caroline’s chest warmed at the unexpected compliment, especially coming so soon on the heels of Louis’s disappointment in her inability to locate the missing article. She’d hoped to get her name on the
Daubert
brief as one of the lawyers working on the case. Being asked to sign, signifying that she was the author, was an honor.

“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t sign it,” she said. “You’re the only one with pro hac vice status, so you have to sign. The New York court won’t let anyone else appear without permission.”

“Very well,” Louis said, pulling a Montblanc pen from his penholder and twisting off the cap. He positioned the page on his ink blotter and scrawled his name in big looping letters, finished with a flourish.

He blew on the page to dry the ink before handing it back to Caroline.

Caroline looked thoughtfully down at the executed signature page.

“You know, since you have pro hac vice status, you could also argue the
Daubert
motion. The court would let you.” She chose her words carefully.

“I have no intention of arguing. It isn’t our role. This is Dale’s show.” Louis searched her face. “What’s going on, Ms. Auden?”

Caroline paused before stepping out into the potential minefield. In her sprint to find the article, to locate Annie Wong, and to pull together the brief, she hadn’t had much time to worry about the next big problem looming on the horizon. But it was time to deal with it.

“Dale’s supposed to be preparing to argue this
Daubert
motion in a few days, right?”

Louis nodded.

“To help him out, we sent him a binder of all of the key articles—so he could study up, so he’d be ready to answer any questions the judge had about the science.” Caroline paused. “I don’t think he’s read any of them.”

“None?” Louis asked.

“None,” Caroline said. “I’ve tried talking with him about them, but he keeps blowing me off. He isn’t responding to my e-mails or calls. I think he’s avoiding me.”

Louis rose from his desk and walked to the window. He looked down on his metropolitan kingdom, lord of the honking cars and motorcycles far below on the streets of Los Angeles. Long white clouds streaked the cobalt-blue sky of midday.

“This is . . . concerning,” he muttered. Though his back was still to her, Caroline could feel the tension rolling off his hunched shoulders. “But we need to be sensitive to the politics . . .”

He turned toward Caroline, his pale eyes flashing with sudden intensity.

“Prepare summaries of the articles. Just the five most important ones. No more than a paragraph on each. Top-level information. Fourteen-point font. Boldfaced headings. No paragraph should be more than two inches long on the page. Get it to Dale now. I’m going to follow up with him personally. We’ll make sure he’s ready.”

Caroline scribbled down his instructions, then looked back up, waiting for the next barrage of orders.

But instead, her boss’s gaze shifted over to the chessboard beside his window.

In the bright sun, each of the pieces cast a sharp shadow on the playing field.

“And please, see what you can find at that club tomorrow,” he finished softly without looking away from the chessboard.

CHAPTER 7

At the early hour, the club’s breezeway was quiet except for the rush of cars on the Pacific Coast Highway, the broad road carved into the base of the crumbling cliffs that rose up behind the club’s grand driveway. Sunshine lit the droplets of dew still clinging to the club’s gray shingles, igniting them like a scattering of diamonds.

Despite the calm of her surroundings, Caroline’s head throbbed. She tried not to think about the fact that if her errand failed, they’d likely lose. But in trying not to think of it, she felt the stakes of the case in her bones. Her breath came short and shallow, as if her lungs didn’t have enough room for a full inhalation.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe slowly. She hated that she had to fight with her own nervous system. It was a major impediment to being a badass.

“Excuse me,” came a muffled voice from beside her.

Caroline opened her eyes.

She found a Filipino valet in a starched white uniform standing at the passenger-side window of her car.

“Here for breakfast?” the valet asked. His mirrored sunglasses reflected Caroline’s face back at her. She noted the dark shadows under her eyes. She’d stayed up late preparing materials for Dale. If he would read them, then the bludgeoned sensation in her head would be worth it. And if he didn’t? She had no answer.

“Yvonne Heller arranged for me to have a look around,” Caroline said, hoping that Yvonne had, in fact, arranged for her to have a look around.

“Ah, yes. You must be Caroline Auden. We’ve been told to expect you.”

Caroline sent a silent thanks to Yvonne Heller.

“Nice car. It’s a classic, isn’t it?” the valet said.

Caroline quirked a half smile. The Ford Mustang GT was old. But classic? Fast cars had been her father’s single extravagance. A strange incongruence in the usually reserved man. Caroline had inherited the car when he’d moved back east. It had been the only good thing about his departure. Held together with bumper stickers and duct tape, it probably didn’t qualify as a classic. But she loved it anyway.

“It’s classic, all right.” She smiled back.

“Can I park it for you?”

Glancing in her rearview mirror at the pile of clothes and books in the backseat, Caroline shook her head. The valet didn’t need to see her mobile closet up close.

“I’ll park it myself,” she said.

When Caroline returned to the doors of the club, the valet waved her through with another radiant smile and a promise to help her in any way he could.

Inside the club, Caroline found similar offers of assistance from everyone she encountered, from the cleaning crew to the tennis pros. In their navy-blue polo shirts with the club’s logo embossed in gold thread, the staff exuded professionalism and courtesy. So much courtesy, in fact, that Caroline was glad when she finally found a quiet corridor where she could think, uninterrupted.

Walking slowly down the carpeted hallway, Caroline tried to imagine where a man she’d never met would’ve hidden something she wasn’t sure existed.

If it did exist, that article had been Dr. Heller’s crowning achievement. He’d braved threats because of it. He’d forgone a more lucrative career for it. He’d have wanted someone to find it.

So then, his last act might’ve been to tell his wife where he’d hidden a copy of the article.

The
babc
in the text message had to mean the Bon Air Beach Club. The rest of the text—the numbers strung together with dashes—looked very much like a combination.

Now, she just needed to find the lock.

Stopping in front of the club’s directory, Caroline studied the floor plan until she found what she sought: the locker room.

“I can’t help you,” said the desk attendant. The twentysomething man wore the same blue shirt with the club’s crest embroidered over his pocket, except on him, the dark blue picked up the color of his eyes, making him look like he’d just stepped out of a surf wear catalog. Behind him, rows of towels sat rolled in cubbyholes beside terry-cloth bathrobes up on hooks.

Caroline opened her mouth to speak, but the desk attendant cut her off.

“Dr. Heller’s locker was cleaned out the week after he died. It’s already been reassigned to someone else.”

Caroline grimaced. Another dead end.

“That sure was fast,” she grumbled.

“The board’s always on top of stuff like that,” the attendant said. “They run this place like a tight ship. They’re even more aggro since they had that gnarly plumbing accident.”

“What do you mean?”

A conspiratorial glint entered the attendant’s eyes. He looked around to make sure no one else was within earshot.

“Six months ago, a major pipe burst in the sewage system. The smell was totally rank. It wasn’t so good for attracting new members.” He quirked an amused grin.

Caroline smiled back.

“The smell of raw sewage wasn’t too popular with our membership, either. Everyone went nutso. There were review committees to figure out what happened. There were petitions to fire all of the board members. But then the board bankrolled a major overhaul and saved their asses.”

“In other words, they fixed the plumbing?” Caroline translated.

“Yep,” said the desk attendant. “Ever since they repiped the whole club, it’s been perfect. The membership is stoked. Everyone’s totally copacetic.”

“Except me,” Caroline murmured.

The surfer-boy attendant smiled a grin of bright-white teeth. His eyes lingered over her chest, and she felt the flush of recognition of his interest in her.

“What was it you said you were looking for?” he asked.

“I didn’t tell you yet.” Caroline leaned in. “But I’ll tell you now,” she breathed. “Yvonne Heller thinks her husband might have hidden something,” she said, keeping her voice low so he had to lean forward to hear her. “An article he wrote.”

“Where do you think it is?” the attendant asked, matching her sotto voce tone.

“That’s what I’m hoping you can help me with. It could be anywhere. Maybe in a safe . . .” Caroline let the silence stretch out. If she got lucky, he’d do her work for her.

But the attendant sat back in his chair and shrugged. “Sorry, ma’am, but the only safe around here’s the one in the locker room. But it gets emptied each night except for petty cash.”

Caroline’s face flushed. Not only had she hit a dead end, but the cute surfer guy had called her
ma’am
. She couldn’t be more than five years older than him. Okay, maybe eight. Either way, she didn’t deserve a
ma’am
. She was about to dismiss the dumb-ass desk attendant as dead to her when he said something unexpected.

“Have you checked with Trina?” he asked.

At the mention of Yvonne’s best friend, Caroline’s instincts sparked. Trina’s casual arrival in Yvonne’s sitting room had stuck with her. There had been something about the way Yvonne’s eyes had tracked Trina around the Hellers’ sitting room . . .

“No, I haven’t talked to Trina. Should I?” Caroline asked.

“I dunno. But Trina and Yvonne are always together, so I just figured if it was something about the Hellers, Trina might know what’s what,” the desk attendant said.

“Is Trina around the club today?”

“No. She usually doesn’t come in on Wednesdays until her two thirty tennis game.”

Caroline glanced at the clock hanging over the locker room desk. It read 9:18.

She didn’t have time to wait for Trina’s arrival. Nor did she have the luxury of another fruitless detour. She had only six hours to find and file the missing article. She needed to focus. Franklin had sent his final text message to Yvonne, not Trina.

Caroline put her nose back down to the only trail she’d scented: The
babc
in the text message had to mean the Bon Air Beach Club. The question remained: Where could Franklin have secreted something away, knowing that he might die?

All at once, something occurred to Caroline.

“What about down at the beach? Are there any lockers down there?” she asked.

“Sure. The beach lockers. They’re down below the terrace level.” He pointed toward a flight of stairs.

“Thanks,” Caroline shouted over her shoulder as she ran for the stairwell.

Caroline shifted impatiently from foot to foot while the female staffer fumbled with the master keys to the beach lockers. It had taken almost twenty minutes to explain to the staffer why she needed to search the locker, then another half hour for the staffer to reach Yvonne to get her permission to open the locker. A half hour Caroline didn’t have.

“Here it is,” said the attendant, holding up one of a dozen identical bronze keys. She inserted it into the center of the lock.

At the telltale click of the lock, Caroline’s hands prickled with anticipation. This beach locker was the only space in the club where the Hellers exercised dominion, where Franklin could have hidden something and known it could be found even if he died.

This had to be it.

When the metal door swung open, Caroline stepped toward the locker, ready to plumb its depths. She found sandy beach chairs. Umbrellas. A pile of towels. Undaunted, she began removing the contents of the locker, leaning them up against the neighboring lockers, their long-dried sand flaking off in chunks when she touched them.

Soon, the locker stood empty except for a rubberized mat cut to fit the bottom of the space. Caroline squatted down to lift the edge of the mat, hoping to find a safe embedded in the floor. But when she pulled up the edge of the sticky mat, she found only solid metal.

Drawing out her phone and turning on the flashlight function, she craned her head into the metal space. Rust edged the jagged rivets that held the box together. Careful not to cut herself, she ran her fingers along the walls, tapping gently as she went, listening for a hollow spot that might indicate a hidden chamber.

But she found nothing. It was just an empty box.

Stepping back, Caroline ran a hand through her dark hair. It was just a plain, metal beach locker, filled with the residual sand of a thousand long-ago beach days.

No. This had to be it.

Leaning back into the locker, she pressed her palms against the sides, then the ceiling and floor. Nothing but metal, cool and sandy, met her touch.

Nothing. There was nothing.

With heaviness, she began replacing the contents of the Hellers’ beach locker. There was no need to rush. No reason for haste. Arranging their old towels and beach chairs was just the depressing denouement to her quest. She’d come so far to accomplish nothing except dusting off the Hellers’ beach gear.

“Did you find what you need?” asked the staffer, her voice cheerful. Her ponytail bobbed as she offered her the last of the beach chairs to load back into the locker.

“No, but it’s okay,” Caroline said, even though it wasn’t okay. Even though they were going to lose the case now. Even though Jasper’s brother, Tom, would die, along with a whole host of other Toms, leaving thousands of devastated Jaspers to grieve her failure.

Sighing, she grasped the corner of the locker door, preparing to swing it shut.

That’s when she saw something. A handwritten note taped to the inside of the metal door.

She pushed the locker open to get a better look at it.

The four-by-six-inch note card had been affixed to the locker door with clear packing tape. On it there was a list of workout goals: “Franklin’s AIM, upper body: lat pulldown 15x22; overhead press 5x18; triceps extension 12x15; bicep curl 18x4. Lower body: adduction 3x8; abduction 5x3; lunges 11x13; running 1 mile; squats 20x5.” At the bottom of the note card someone had scrawled a name with a bright-blue Sharpie:
FERMAT.

The first thing that struck Caroline was the name. Wasn’t Pierre de Fermat a French mathematician? Why had Franklin written Fermat’s name at the bottom of his workout targets?

Then Caroline focused on Heller’s workout. The numbers of repetitions were strange. Why would anyone do thirteen repetitions of eleven lunges? And fifteen lat pulldowns twenty-two times? None of it made any sense.

Caroline eyed the silent breezeway. Though unused in the winter months, she could imagine the bustle in the sandy-bottomed walkway on hot summer days as club members flocked to the coast. But now, in October, there was no one there. Dr. Heller wouldn’t have used this locker for months at a time. And yet, he’d taped his gymnasium workout targets in an unused summer beach locker.