Then You Hide (5 page)

“
Maybe
a murderess,” Jack said, the only word of Fletch’s speech he’d really heard. “When you dig into the past like I’ve been doing for a few months, the inconsistencies in that trial are jaw-dropping. It might have been thirty years ago, but the system of jurisprudence hasn’t changed that much. Eileen Stafford didn’t get a fair trial.”

“Then why did she accept it?” Adrien leaned back in the plastic chair and crossed brawny arms. “Why didn’t she take the stand? Her fingerprints weren’t on the weapon, but someone’s were—someone they never identified. She had no gunshot residue on her clothes, and her motive was downright piss-poor. So why didn’t she mount a defense?”

Jack picked up the cup, then put it down again. He’d give his right ball for a beer, but Fletch, being the self-appointed sobriety police and the son of a gutter drunk, would put a stop to that.

“Ever since I interviewed her for another case and got caught up in this one, she’s said the same thing over and over. ‘He can do anything.’”

“And you take that to mean what?”

“That there is someone in the world who terrifies Eileen Stafford.”

“The woman’s in a coma, knocking hard on death’s door. I doubt she’s terrified of anyone right now.”

That’s where Fletch was wrong. In the last few months, he’d talked a helluva lot to Eileen, and two things were consistent. She was scared of someone, and she wouldn’t say who had fathered the babies.

“That’s what I want to know the most,” he said, half thinking out loud. “Who is the father of those three?”

“Don’t get your hopes up, mate,” Fletch said. “That farmhouse on Sapphire Trail had a lousy filing system, and Lucy’s investigation machine is mighty. There is absolutely no record of who their father is.”

Jack had been a Bullet Catcher long enough to know Lucy Sharpe’s
everything
was mighty. It was one of the things he missed most about the job. One of many.

“There might be a record,” Jack said.

Fletch shook his head. “Trust me, while you’ve been off trying to find Miranda’s sisters, she and I have been looking for any records. She wants to know who her father is, too.”

Jack looked hard at his friend, considering just how much of his hand he could show. He trusted Fletch, but could he trust him not to tell Miranda? Or, worse, Lucy?

He had to. “I think,” he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “I think the answer might be in the tattoos.”

Fletch’s amber eyes were full of doubt as he waited for Jack to elaborate.

“But I have to see the other tattoos before I can be certain or formulate some kind of theory,” Jack said.

“We will. Wade will get Vanessa. Lucy says he’s very good.”

Jack snorted. “If you ask me, he just failed his Bullet Catchers test.”

“I didn’t ask you. Go on about the tats. Is this something Eileen said to you or just conjecture?”

“Nothing she’s said outright and plenty of conjecture. After I saw Miranda’s tattoo, I dug through every court record and newspaper clipping from Wanda Sloane’s murder, looking for someone or something with a connection to the letters
HI
.”

Fletch’s eyebrows lifted with interest. “You think the tattoos are initials? That’s brilliant, mate. Isn’t there anyone from back then that you can talk to? What about the cop who arrested her? You talked to him, right? Did you tell him this theory?”

Willie Gilbert was the last person Jack would confide in. “I was a cop, and I was damn good at sniffing rat droppings. Willie Gilbert’s no good.”

“He’s retired.”

“Yeah, and he lives better than any retired cop I ever knew. He ain’t golfing and living in a resort on his pension.”

Fletch nodded, getting the implication.

“I have a better source,” Jack continued. “Remember I found the nurse, Rebecca Aubry, who did the tattoos? She’s the one who gave me the Whitakers’ name in Virginia. I’m going to try to talk to her again. I just have to figure out some way to get her to talk.”

“Guess your usual way won’t work on a woman of seventy.”

Jack smiled. “She’s got a connection to one of the girls, I think. That’s why she wanted the picture I found in the Charleston newspaper files of her holding a baby at Eileen’s trial. Once I tell her I’ve found one, maybe two, I think I can get her to talk. But she’s been out of town for weeks now.”

“What’s your theory? That she tattooed them with the father’s initials?”

“Or birthday. Or something. When I first met her, Rebecca told me that tattooing a black-market baby isn’t that unusual. It’s a way for the mother to put her mark on a child she might never see again, since there are no legal records.”

“Could be the mother’s mark, not the father’s,” Fletch said.

“Maybe.” Jack pushed his cold coffee aside and propped his elbows on the table. “Fletch, what if the father is the person who killed Wanda Sloane?”

Fletch’s eyebrows shot up.

“Just hear me out,” Jack continued. “Her battle cry before she slipped into the coma was ‘He can do anything,’ and I’ve always thought she took the blame for this murder to keep the babies safe. Well, who better to know Eileen’s secret than their father?”

“It’s not impossible,” Fletch said, stroking the golden soul patch under his lip. “But the timing doesn’t work. She had the babies in July 1977, and they were tattooed and sold almost immediately, right? So they were tattooed eight months before Wanda Sloane was killed. Why would she do that? Kind of a stretch to think there’s a connection.”

“Kind of stupid not to.”

Fletch grinned. “I’ve always said you were a bonzer investigator.”

“I’d ask her point-blank if she’d wake up.” Jack glanced toward the door that led to the infirmary. “So far, she’s refused to discusss the murder. But now that we’ve brought her Miranda and might bring her the other two sisters, she might. In the meantime, all I have is hi or HI or 14.”

“Why don’t I run it by Lucy and—”

“No.” Jack’s tone left no room for argument.

“Why not?” Fletch said, giving Jack a dark look. “Look how fast she was able to produce Vanessa Porter. She’s got amazing resources, and I’ve finally cracked the door open, so she’ll at least be civil to you. Take advantage of her—”

“No one takes advantage of Lucy Sharpe, Fletch. And yeah, you cracked the door by doing me the favor of finding Miranda. But anything happening on this case since then is not because Lucy’s developed a soft spot for her least-favorite former employee. She’s offering help because of Miranda, and because you and Miranda are getting married.”

“Who cares why she’s doing it? She’s got the goods to help you investigate—”

“No fucking way am I letting Lucy Sharpe in on this.” He narrowed his gaze. “She’s a control freak, and this case is mine.”

Fletch shrugged, too good a friend or too loyal to his boss to push it any further. “Your call, mate, but you really don’t know her that well.”

Fletch was wrong again. Jack knew her better than any other Bullet Catcher, including her golden boy, Dan Gallagher.

“Just don’t tell her this theory,” Jack said. “Lucy’s not the only one with ‘amazing’ resources. Now that I know Rebecca Aubry is coming back from Florida, I’ll start there.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Stellar computer hacking.”

Fletch let out a dubious laugh. “Since when did you touch a keyboard?”

“I didn’t. I have a…friend who used to be a travel agent and cracked the reservation system for me.”

“I should have—” Fletch’s smile evaporated as he rose from his seat so fast it hit the ground with a clatter. “What’s the matter?”

Miranda ran into the cafeteria, her face flushed. “She’s awake!” She grabbed Fletch’s arm and pulled him toward the door. “She mumbled something, opened her eyes, and looked at me!”

“Let’s go,” Jack said, hustling around them toward the infirmary.

“The doctor’s in there,” Miranda said. “They made me leave.”

“Don’t worry, luv,” Fletch assured her, draping his arm around her as the trio rushed down the hall. “If she wakes up, you’re the one person in the world she’ll want to see.”

An armed security guard stood in front of the door, his expression and stance forbidding. “No entry,” he said, in case they were not fluent in body language.

“I’m sorry, Jack.” Risa, the most efficient and thorough nurse he’d ever met, came toward them, her dark eyes full of warning. “You cannot go in there.”

“Risa, honey, come—”

“Don’t ‘Risa honey’ me. This is the first sign of lucidity in almost two months. I can’t bend these rules, and you know it.”

He did know it, although it was easy to forget the infirmary was part of a women’s prison.

“When?” he asked, undeterred.

“Let me check. Stay here.” She disappeared into Eileen’s room, and Jack turned to Miranda.

“What did she say when she woke up?”

“I don’t know,” Miranda said. “It happened so fast. I was just sitting with her, holding her hand, talking like I always do on the off chance she hears me.”

“What were you talking about?” Fletch asked.

“You.” She smiled. “I told her how we’d met and what happened. Then I told her we were getting married, and I swear she tightened her grip on my fingers just then.” She rubbed her arms. “I got chills. It was like…she heard me.”

“You said she mumbled something,” Jack said. “What did she say?”

“I couldn’t quite get it. She was just moaning at first. Then it was jibberish. I want to go back
in
there.”

“Risa will get us in,” Jack assured her. “If anybody can do anything around here, it’s Risa.”

The guard snorted softly. “Got that right.”

The door opened, and Risa stood between them and Eileen, shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”

Miranda gasped and put her hand on her mouth. “No.”

“Oh, no, she’s not gone,” Risa said quickly. “She’s just back to sleep. Deep. But the doctor wants to talk to you, ma’am. He’d like you to tell him if her eyes opened and how clear they looked.”

“They opened. She looked right at me.” Her voice cracked a little. “Are you sure she’s back in the coma? She was definitely waking up.”

“I know it’s frustrating. You feel like you were so close,” Risa said.

Jack gave Miranda a nudge. “Go on in. Maybe she’ll wake up when she hears your voice.”

He turned to Fletch, his only real friend in the Bullet Catchers now. “Keep my theory to yourself. I mean it.”

“I will. But I still think you’re making a mistake, not involving Lucy.”

“No, I’m not.” He’d made enough mistakes where Lucy was involved. He wasn’t about to make another.

CHAPTER FIVE

STELLA FELDSTEIN HUNG
over the railing of the
Valhalla,
waving a bright orange sun hat and calling Vanessa’s name. “I’ll meet you down there!” Stella called above the forty-some sails slapping against masts that stretched into the blue sky.

Great. Just what she needed. Hurricane Stella.

From the moment they’d met the first day onboard, Stella had made it her mission to find a man on the ship for Vanessa. Fortunately, they were all traveling with wives and girlfriends. So Vanessa and Stella had dinner together, and by the time the entrée was served, Vanessa had shared the whole story about Clive.

It had been a relief to have someone to talk to, but Stella had adopted Vanessa’s problem as her own and had threatened to accompany her on every island stop to search for Clive. So far, Vanessa had held her at bay. But Stella was a force to be reckoned with, and right now Vanessa didn’t want to reckon with anyone.

And she certainly didn’t want to share what she’d learned in St. Kitts.

My mother, the murderer, is dying and finally decided to find me since she needs my bone marrow. Oh, and I have two sisters I didn’t know about
.

Vanessa’s stomach rolled with the ship as she accepted help onto the boarding platform.

“Welcome back aboard, Ms. Porter. Hope you had a wonderful time in St. Kitts.” The efficient crew members not only knew everyone by name, they had itineraries memorized.

She navigated the curved stairway to the Clipper Deck, followed a teak-lined passageway, and slipped into her cabin without seeing anyone. Inside, she pulled out a small carry-on bag from the closet and tossed it onto the bed, then started packing underwear, some T-shirts, jeans, shorts, and a cotton skirt. She wouldn’t need much. She’d only be gone two or three days.

If she didn’t find him by then, she’d get on an island hopper and fly back to wherever the ship was in port. She grabbed the itinerary on her dresser and looked a few days ahead. St. Maarten. She could resume her island-to-island search there. After that, St. Barts. Then what?

She’d figure it out. Just as she figured out the streets of New York City when she was fifteen and the games of Wall Street when she was twenty-five. She could figure anything out, and fast.

She stopped for a moment and pulled out the only tangible clue to Clive’s whereabouts.
The man you want is in Nevis
.

Was this crazy? No. She’d been in that bar asking about Clive. She’d been all over and had probably talked to about forty people in the last few days. Someone had noticed or overheard and wrote this.

“Vanessa!” Stella knocked on the cabin door. “Did you find him?”

Vanessa crossed the room. “No, not yet.” She invited her in with a wave. “But I’ve been told he’s in Nevis, and I’m going there to find him.”

Stella frowned at the half-packed tote bag. “Alone?”

“Yes. I’ll only miss two days of the cruise.”

“It might not be safe.”

Vanessa gave her a surprised look before returning to packing. “This from the president of the Women Should Travel Alone club? It’s Nevis, not Afghanistan. Don’t worry.”

Stella flung her tangerine hat across the bed as if it were a Frisbee. “I don’t like it. It’s one thing to be on a cruise, or in a hotel, or even on a day trip, but without reservations, you never know what you’re going to find there.”

“Hopefully, Clive.”

“I think you ought to stay on the cruise and keep talking to people. That’s a very good approach, and you get a little vacation from all that financial hoo-hah. Besides,” Stella added, her voice dripping with implication, “you never know who you could meet.”

“I’m not in the Caribbean for a vacation or to find a man. Although…”

“What?” Stella dropped onto the bed, her eyes bright. “You met someone?”

Did she ever. “Yes, but not like that.”

“Why? Is he ugly? Fat? Poor? What’s he look like on a scale of one to ten?”

“Eleven. But he’s got…issues.”

“Dolly, we all come with”—she lifted the handle of the partially packed tote—“a leetle bah-gahge.”

“More than a little, I’m afraid.” Killer mothers, secret sisters. Mongo bah-gahge.

“Did you take your glasses off so he can see how pretty your eyes are?”

“Nope, I kept my glasses
and
clothes on. I did spill a drink all over myself, though.”

Stella sighed, devastated. “What’s his name? Is he on vacation here?”

Vanessa flicked at the air.
Go away, subject.
“Business. Long story. Listen, can I give you my key so you can keep an eye on my cabin? I’ll meet up with you in St. Maarten.”

“You’d better tell the captain and someone on the crew. Or better yet, the owner. He’s onboard. Did you see him?” She picked up the hat and fanned herself. “Ooh-la-la. Married, though, to a busty little Italian thing with a kid in tow and another one on the way. I talked to her. Did you know that one of these ships—”

Vanessa let her chatter, stepping into the bathroom for toiletries and cosmetics, checking her watch to calculate when she could get the launch back to Basseterre and grab the afternoon ferry to Nevis.

Suddenly, she realized Stella had gone silent and sensed she wasn’t in the bathroom alone.

“
This
is what you call being told he’s in Nevis?”

Vanessa didn’t even have to look to know what Stella was holding. Damn, the woman was nosy. Sweet and well meaning but so freaking
meddlesome
.

“This crappy little piece of paper with chicken-scratch handwriting is what you call information?”

“Someone gave it to me in a bar where I know Clive has been in the last few weeks.” She snapped it from Stella’s hands. “And, honestly, this is not your business.”

“Dolly, I’m a Jewish grandmother from Fort Lauderdale. Everything’s my business. Why would someone hand you a weird note like this?”

“I’ve talked to a lot of people about him, and one of them wants to help, I’m sure.”

“Why not just walk up to you and tell you?”

Vanessa had thought of that. “Because there are still people on this planet who are not cool with being gay or knowing gays. Whoever wrote this might want privacy or think Clive does.”

Stella folded her arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “All right. You win. What time are we leaving?”

Vanessa choked a laugh. “No.”

“You can’t do this alone. I’ll travel just as light as you. I know I’m in my sixties.” At Vanessa’s look, she shrugged. “All right, seventies. And I know you tear ass through these islands like a steamroller on amphetamines, but I’m a seasoned traveler. I can help you.”

“I don’t want your help.” Hurt widened Stella’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Stella. I’m so sorry.” She reached for the other woman’s hand. “I’ve had an unbelievably nasty day, and that was just mean-spirited, and I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Stella patted Vanessa’s cheek and straightened her glasses, the gesture already so familiar and sweet that it just twisted the guilt knife even further. “I’ve got a daughter. She gets testy sometimes when she hasn’t had sex for a while.”

Vanessa didn’t know whether to laugh or blink at the moisture in her eyes. “Your daughter is lucky to have you, Stell.” The truth of it squeezed her chest. Her daughter was lucky to have a real mother, not a shrew who slinked away into the night, and not the psychopath who gave birth to her.

Stella slid Vanessa’s glasses down her nose. “You really ought to get that LASIK surgery. You’re hiding this
shainapunim
!” Her voice was light, barely covering hurt feelings. “‘Pretty face’ in Yiddish, honey.”

Vanessa’s shoulders sank under the weight of all the kindness. “I don’t even deserve friendship like yours, Stella.”

“What a stupid thing to say. Everyone deserves friendship.”

“And as much as I really appreciate the offer, I’m going to fly solo. I have your cell-phone number, and I know service is spotty, but I’ll try to call you. And you call me anytime. Remember, I programmed my phone with your song. When I hear “Some Enchanted Evening,” I’ll know it’s you and pounce on the phone.” Vanessa smiled. “And I promise that when I find Clive, I’ll get the word to you, no matter what it takes.”

Stella nodded with a quiet sigh. “Okay.” She stepped aside to let Vanessa finish filling her bag. “So what was his name?”

“Who?”

“The eleven.”

She zipped up the case and flung it over her shoulder. “Oh, I don’t remember, but he’s definitely not my type.” She took the card key off the dresser and held it out to Stella. “Here.”

“Thanks. I might move in here for a few days,” Stella said. “Your cabin’s bigger than mine.”

“Make yourself at home.” Vanessa hesitated a second, then reached both arms out, fighting the demon that made the gesture feel so unnatural and stiff. Another one of Mary Louise Porter’s legacies. “And thank you.”

Stella took the hug and returned it with ten times the strength. “When will I see you again?”

“If I don’t hook up with one of the day trips to Dominica or Guadaloupe, I’ll be on the dock in Gustavia when this ship arrives. You have my word.”

Stella sighed, cupping Vanessa’s face. “I don’t like it, dolly, but all right. I’m here if you need me. Though I know, I know: you don’t need anybody.”

“I need Clive.” More than ever. “And that’s why I’m doing this.”

It had nothing to do with the man who’d shaken her world upside down. Nothing.

The minute Vanessa rumbled the rented Jeep into the over-the-top and under-the-radar elegance of the Four Seasons Resort in Nevis, she knew that if Clive had been to this island, he’d been here.

Clive Easterbrook didn’t do quaint, precious, historical, or natural, which wiped out the Victorian gingerbread houses, the museums, forts, and excursions up the side of the mountain and into a rain forest she’d just spent a few hours searching. But this, she thought as she flipped the keys to the valet, drinking in the elegance and ambience,
this
place would appeal to Clive.

He loved nothing as much as the smell of big, fat, colossal sums of money, and the Four Seasons reeked of it. And if he’d been traveling with a new man, as he’d implied in one of his texts, it would be a man who would stay here.

Buoyed by that certainty, she headed toward the deck, where a sparkling infinity pool spilled into a waterfall, surrounded by clusters of palm trees and rows of white Haitian-cotton-covered chaise longues.

Strains of jazz floated on citrus-perfumed air. No steel drums for this set, no tiki bars or hot tubs. Just soft music and bubbling water and the occasional sound of laughter from the tanned, moneyed guests.

Oh, yeah. Clive would be at home here.

She took a seat at a softly lit bar under a classic thatched roof, and instantly a cocktail napkin was in front of her.

“Good evening, madame.” The island native bartender’s voice lilted with accented English as he touched his slim brass name badge. “I am Henry. What can I get you to drink on this beautiful tropical night? Something cold, with spicy island rum and sweet juice?”

“Just water, thank you.”

While Henry poured mineral water over ice and added a garnish, she retrieved her picture of Clive. It had been examined by at least twenty more people in the last few hours. One said he thought he’d seen Clive but didn’t remember when or where; one winked and said he
wished
he’d seen Clive. Two guys at a place called Papaya’s thought he’d been there, but they’d been so drunk that night, they couldn’t be sure. The rest gave her the blank stare she’d come to know all too well.

When the bartender served her water, she launched into her speech. “I’m looking for a friend of mine who’s been on vacation in the islands.”

Taking the picture, he tilted it toward a flickering candle. “A Four Seasons guest.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He might have stayed here.”

“That wasn’t a question.” He looked up. “I’ve served him several times.”

“You did?” She practically shot off the barstool. “When?”

“A week or so ago.” He smiled at the picture and handed it back to her. “Very amusing man, from New York.”

Hallefreakinglujah . “Yes, he’s funny and from New York.”

“A stockbroker,” the bartender added with a gleam of pride at knowing his customers so well.

“A hedge-fund manager, but that’s close enough.”

“Drinks gimlets and loves Diana Krall,” he continued, as though it were a game.

“Loves every song she ever sang. Oh, I am
so
happy!” She dumped her bags on the next stool and settled in. “I was beginning to think no one in the entire Caribbean had actually spoken to Clive.”

“Clive?”

“Yes,” she said. “He did the ‘drop into the islands, drop out of life’ thing, and I’m trying to coax him back home. He’s been down here a month, and he’s more of a workaholic than I am, so it’s time for…” She hesitated at the look on his face. “What is it?”

“His name is not Clive. It’s Jason Brooks.”

Jason Brooks? Would Clive travel under a fake name? “Did he tell you that?”

“No, but it is our job to know the name of every guest, to be certain their drinks are charged to the proper room.” He indicated the photo on the bar. “He is Jason Brooks, a guest in the Palm Grove villa, one of the private cottages on our property.”

“Maybe he was staying with Jason Brooks. He’s traveling with someone, and they could have put the room under either name.”

“No.” He shook his head. “That man is Jason Brooks. I am certain of that.”

But he could be wrong; he didn’t work the front desk. “Was he with anyone when he was here?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “Not that I noticed. But he spent a lot of time…” He held up his thumb and pinky to his ear. “On the cell phone.”

That would be Clive.

The bartender nodded to an older couple who’d just taken seats, then placed a drink menu in front of Vanessa. “Do you drink gimlets as well, Miss? I make the best.”

“No, thank you. Can you just tell me when he checked out?”

“He did not check out. He has not been here for a while, but he is still registered in the villa.”