Full Contact (9 page)

“I've been 'round these parts since before grass got here. Didn't think there was anyone here I hadn't at least heard of. But I don't know the name of the guy he's lookin' for.”

Jay was looking for a guy.

He was a private investigator and had never said a word to her about that. What was he investigating? For whom?

He really was a therapist. But that didn't preclude him from using the people of Shelter Valley to serve his own purposes. People like Hugh.

And her? Was he using her to get something on some one in Shelter Valley?

Ellen couldn't stand duplicity. Not on any level. And she also couldn't stand the fact that she'd been starting to like him. To hope that he could help her.

She'd actually felt an inkling of attraction.

She'd given him her deepest, darkest confidences.

All the while he'd been keeping secrets.

She was done with the man. Period.

J
AY WAS GETTING READY
to leave the house Wednesday morning to pick up Ellen for her daily ride when she called to cancel.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, wishing he was a bit more surprised—and less disappointed—to discover that her mother's obvious disapproval of their endeavors was stronger than Ellen's belief he could help her.

“No, everything isn't okay.”

Ellen was more than a job to him. She'd been presented to him for a reason—he had to help her. “What's wrong?”

“You're a private investigator.”

It wasn't a secret. It also wasn't common knowledge. But then, this was Shelter Valley. News that never surfaced in Miami wore traveling shoes around here.

“In my spare time and usually volunteer.”

“Are you working on a case now?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you say so?”

“It has nothing to do with you.”

“Does it have to do with Hugh?”

“No.”

“But you tried to use him as a source.”

“I spontaneously asked him a question. It wasn't premeditated. I'll explain if you give me a chance.”

“You don't have to explain yourself, Jay. I just think it's best if we end our sessions.”

“I
want
to explain myself. And I'm not giving up on you, either,” he said. “We're making progress. You aren't physically afraid of me.”

“I don't deny that.”

“Then don't give up, Ellen. At least not until after you've heard what I have to say.”

“This investigation you're working on…is it why you're in town?”

“Yes.”

“So working with me, with the rest of your massage clients…we're a cover and—”

“Whoa!” Jay responded to the accusation in her tone. An accusation that, if he were to examine it, went beyond the bounds of therapist and client. “Absolutely not. I'm a massage therapist first and foremost. I do not give any less attention or commitment to my work because I also investigate. That work…it started out as a onetime thing. A personal quest. Turns out I'm good at it. So I help out when I can. That's all.”

“You aren't working for, like, the CIA or some other branch of the government? You aren't here on some official business?”

“Of course not.”

“How do I know that? If you are working for someone, you'd lie to me. You'd have to as part of your job.”

“How about you give me a chance to explain?” He was going way beyond professional obligation for this woman. “I'll show you what I'm working on, explain the case to you. Then you decide if you still trust me.”

“When?”

“Tonight?”

“What time?”

“Seven.”

“Where?”

“If you want to see my files, you'll need to come to my place. If you only want to hear what I have to say, we can meet anywhere you'd like.”

“What I'd like is for you to meet me at my mother's. I want her to meet you. Then we'll go to your house to see these files of yours.”

“Are you sure she'll be okay with that?”

“I'm sure she won't be, but she'll agree, all the same.”

In his opinion, Ellen's mother—and everyone else in Shelter Valley, as far as he could tell—as well-intentioned as she was, actually was part of Ellen's problem. She was never going to feel safe if people made her feel as though she had to be watched over. Protected, as though she couldn't protect herself.

He asked where her mother lived. Took down the address. “I'll be there.”

And for your sake, Ellen, I'll even put on the one nice shirt and pair of pants I own.

 

E
LLEN
, M
ARTHA AND
D
AVID
were in the kitchen when they heard the bike. Ellen remained with her mother while David answered the door, but she could hear what was being said.

“Good evening, son. Come in.” David used his most patriarchal voice. One his parishioners rarely heard.

“I'm Jay Billingsley, Pastor Marks.” Jay's voice sounded as easy as always. “You stopped by to invite me to church, but I wasn't home. You left a card.”

“Call me David. I also called to invite you to a men's group. You declined.”

“I'm not much of a church man.”

Ellen exchanged a glance with her mother. She smiled. Her mother did not.

“While I am a servant of God, I am also a man and I will not stand calmly by and allow anyone to hurt my family.”

“You have an entire town backing you up, sir.”

“Then we understand each other. Fine.”

Hearing the footsteps approaching, Ellen took a couple of steps forward. She didn't quite meet Jay's eye when he entered the room, but she did note the unfazed expression on his face.

Then her thoughts snagged on the man's attire. Instead of jeans, he wore a pair of expensive-looking black pants with a white, long-sleeved shirt.

And dress shoes.

Wow. If she were sexually healthy, she would be drooling.

“Mom, this is Jay,” she said quickly to cover her momentary loss of focus. “Jay, this is my mom.”

He put his hand out. “Hello, Mrs. Marks. Nice to meet you.”

Ellen held her breath, afraid her mother was going to reject Jay's overture.

Martha's hand moved slowly, but she did shake his hand.

“You know we're watching you,” she said.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And you don't care?”

“I have nothing to hide.”

“We might be small-town folks, but we aren't fools.”

“I realize that, ma'am.”

“Ellen…she's special—”

“Mom,”
Ellen said, with a warning tone in her voice.

“I'm trying to help Ellen overcome an issue that has arisen as a result of her attack. That's all.” Jay's voice was so certain, so calm. Confident.

Ellen wished he hadn't lied to her. Even if only by omission.

“I know. She told us Shawna referred her to you.”

“Ellen is struggling with trust issues. Your lack of trust in me isn't supporting her in any way.”

“Okay, I'm right here, folks. And don't much like being talked about as if I wasn't.” Ellen did appreciate that Jay spoke about her frankly without revealing any personal details.

“Oh, baby, you're right. I'm sorry,” Martha said. Jay and David remained silent, squared off on either side of Ellen and her mom.

“Fine, now that you've all met, let's go.” Ellen nodded toward Jay then led the way to the front door.

“You're going to his place now?” Martha asked as David planted himself between them and the door. “Yes.”

“If she doesn't hear from you within the hour, the sheriff and I will be at his house,” David said.

Ellen smiled. For some reason David's protectiveness right now didn't cramp her. Or make her feel weak. “Thank you.” She leaned forward to kiss her stepfather on the cheek, then left.

“I'll follow you,” she said to Jay, then climbed behind the wheel of her car before he could argue with her.

But she knew he wouldn't have. He didn't seem to have a problem with her giving all the orders.

Of course, his calm acceptance could be a facade. And Ellen could be making the second biggest mistake of her life.

 

J
AY KNEW THE SECOND
E
LLEN
was inside his front door that he'd made a mistake—crossed a line he shouldn't have. He'd never had a client in his home before.

Now he had a choice to make. Tell her to leave. Or continue to embed himself in a situation that could become professionally unethical.

There was no law that said he couldn't be personally interested in one of his clients. And he really believed he could help Ellen.

“What is it you had to show me?” She stood in the foyer, unself-consciously attractive wearing khaki shorts, a black T-shirt and black flip-flops.

“Over here, on the table.” And that easily his choice was made.

He wasn't going to tell her to leave.

He slid around to the far side of the oblong oak table as she approached. Her gaze was directed at the piles of file folders spread around the table.

“Have a seat.” He took it as a good sign when she did so, then he pulled out a chair for himself.

When he'd blurted out his willingness to share his business with her, the idea had made sense. He'd seen it as his chance to maintain her as a client—to help her.

He hadn't considered how difficult it would be. Few people in Jay's post-prison life—aside from the detectives he'd worked with—knew of his past. Until this stint with Shawna, his massage therapist work had all been on a consultant basis. No one hired him full
time so there had been no background checks. And beyond work, no one got close enough to need to know.

The folder marked Photos was in front of him. He opened it and studied the grainy black-and-white image of his mother.

Regardless of his reservations, this was the right thing to do. He slid the photo toward Ellen.

“Who is she?” she asked after a minute.

“My mother.”

 

E
VEN THOUGH THE PICTURE
was grainy, Ellen could see that the smiling woman had been beautiful. “She looks so happy.”

“I'm fairly certain the man in that photo with her is my father.”

“Where is he now?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out.”

“The investigation you're working on is to find your own father?”

“He left a few weeks before she was killed.” The twist of his lips reminded her of a similar one she'd seen—many times—on the faces of her siblings when her father was being discussed.

“Did he come back for you?”

“You're kidding, right?”

Jay slid a folder in front of her. “The night he took off, he left my mother a letter. They were married. Had a kid. And he leaves her a damned letter. She read it so many times, cried so many tears over it, it's hard to read, but there's enough of it there to make the message clear.”

The folder contained a single sheet of notepaper encased in a protective plastic cover. Written in narrow
script using dark ink, the letter was nearly illegible in places. But she could read enough to understand that someone signed away his parental rights to a baby, J. J. Billingsley. One phrase kept popping out at her: “I'm not fit to be a father.”

Ellen couldn't make out the signature. It was in the middle of a fold and mostly torn away.

Her mind couldn't grasp that a parent would forfeit his child. She knew it happened—she was a social worker, she knew families broke down. But as a mother, loving her son as fiercely as she did, it was impossible to comprehend.

“So you've never heard from him? In all the years since?”

“Nope.”

“What's his name?”

“Jay Billingsley, same as me. I was raised by my aunt—she was older than my mother by a decade—who, understandably, detested my father. One of the few pieces of information she shared with me was that I was named after him—at my mother's insistence. According to my aunt, my mother was besotted with the man to the point of losing all common sense. My aunt rarely spoke of my father. Rightly or wrongly, she blamed him for my mother's death.”

Ellen reached for the next folder. “May I?”

Jay nodded, and she started to examine the evidence he'd compiled until he held up his phone.

“You need to call your folks or we're going to have visitors.”

Hard to believe almost an hour had passed. Grabbing her cell phone, Ellen called her mother, told her that she was fine, and that she'd call her when she arrived home.

“And, Mom, it might be a little while,” she added as warning for her mother not to panic.

“You've got a lot of dead ends here,” she said to Jay.

“He worked at a car dealership in Tucson—Dolby Dodge.” He'd rolled his sleeves up and undid the top couple of buttons of his shirt. “I found a used Mustang there when I was sixteen, wanted to buy it. My aunt wouldn't sign for the car and forbade me from ever going back. When I pushed, she told me why.”

Ellen tried to picture a sixteen-year-old Jay and failed.

“I've never heard of Dolby Dodge.” Not that she was all that familiar with Tucson.

“It went out of business eleven years ago,” Jay said with a sigh. “There's no record I can find of a Jay Billingsley, other than myself, ever having lived in Tucson during that period. I can't find a marriage license for my mother in Arizona, or any other state, either.”

“You have her social security records.” Ellen had glanced through them.

“I'm next of kin. And as you see, there's no record of a name change. The IRS reports no joint filings, either.”

“So maybe they weren't married.”

“My aunt sure thought they were—and I have my mother's wedding ring. At this point I have to consider that they might not have been. At least not legally.”

“Is your aunt still alive?”

“No. She died from kidney failure fourteen years ago—during my first year of college.”

Ellen couldn't imagine being so young and without family. Hell, she couldn't imagine being without family at any age.

“I've been alone in the world ever since.”

So he'd never married. She'd wondered.

He picked up the photo he'd first shown her. “I have to find this man,” he said, pointing to the guy who'd been standing next to Tammy. “Based on when the picture was taken, that has to be my father. She wouldn't have had time to end one relationship, start another and have a baby.”

“Did you show the picture around Big Spirits?”

“I asked Hugh. He mentioned Dolby Dodge one day when he was talking about all of the cars he'd owned over the years. And yes, I showed him the photo.”