Within Striking Distance (19 page)

“Becky may not have made this clear enough to you, so I will. Your daughter is in danger. Someone is trying to stop us from learning the truth about her origins.”

“If Becky’s in danger, it’s because of you, McMasters. I can’t believe it’s got anything to do with her adoption.”

“If she’s Gina—”

“No. I told you, we only wondered about it, same as she’s wondering about it now. That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“Then who arranged the adoption?”

“A man I knew asked for my help. He said his teenage cousin had a baby and the family wanted it kept private.”

“Who was he?”

“He was a good man. He gave me a break when no one else would. He knew how much my wife and I wanted a child. I owe him for that. I swore not to say anything.”

“I don’t give a damn what you promised, Floyd. If you love your daughter as much as you claim to, you should stop thinking about yourself for a change and think of her.”

“I always think of her. Becky is the most important—”

“Then prove it. Prove that your daughter’s faith in you is justified and tell me who gave you the baby.”

There was a pause. Jake waited him out. Finally, Floyd muttered a curse under his breath and spoke. “It was my old boss. Gerald Shillington.”

I
T WAS A
NASCAR Sprint Cup Series race weekend in Indianapolis. Jake had planned to attend it with Becky, so their plane tickets and motel rooms had been booked more than a week ago. That was fortunate, because by Saturday there wouldn’t be a vacancy in the area. They had arranged to arrive a day early in order to catch a few of the practice runs. Instead, they were miles from the track and neither one was thinking about the upcoming race. Another far more serious purpose had been added to their trip.

Jake steered the rental car past a pair of stone gateposts and started up the long driveway toward the Shillington house. Like the other homes in this upscale Indianapolis suburb, it was set well back from the road. The three-story Tudor had dark wood beams crisscrossing its gleaming white stucco and diamond-paned windows that glinted
golden in the afternoon sun. It sat amid at least five acres of lush lawns, formal flower beds and meticulously squared-off yew hedges. There was no sign of dogs running loose or kids riding tricycles in this neighborhood.

The address had been easy to obtain, since Gerald Shillington had lived in the same place for more than sixty years. He was in his nineties now and in fragile health, so apart from rare excursions to his suite at the Indianapolis racetrack, he seldom left the property.

Yes, finding Floyd’s former boss had been the easy part. Getting to see him was another matter. Each time Jake had called, the staff had put him off, claiming Gerald wasn’t at home. The only person who had agreed to meet with him was Gerald’s daughter, Cynthia.

Jake shifted his gaze to Becky, who was twisting her hands in her lap. At first he’d tried to convince her to wait for him at their motel, but she had insisted on accompanying him. He knew that if he hadn’t agreed, she would have come on her own, yet he hated to see her so tense. Still, her honesty about her emotions was one of the things he liked most about her.

She was bearing up well, considering the bombshell her father had dropped. If Gerald Shillington really had given the infant Becky to Floyd, then her dream of being Gina Grosso likely wasn’t going to come true. The scenario no longer made sense. What possible reason could Gerald have had to steal a baby from a hospital nursery in the first place? He hadn’t been desperate to have a child; he’d been a sixty-year-old widower with an adult daughter. It was doubtful he would have had the means to sneak into a Nashville nursery, either. And why would anyone take such a risk only to give the baby away?

Trying to arrange a private adoption on behalf of a young cousin was a more plausible scenario. A family as wealthy and influential as the Shillingtons might have wanted to hush up
an illegitimate birth. Sure, the timing of the adoption did raise suspicions, yet sometimes coincidences really did happen.

Coincidences like a break-in and a fire, plus a hit-and-run?

If Becky’s in danger, it’s because of you, McMasters.

Jake flinched as he remembered Floyd’s words. He didn’t want to believe them. He’d gone over his recent cases again, and he still couldn’t see any reason other than the Grosso case for someone to target him. Len continued to maintain that Jake was being paranoid about the danger to Becky. Whether it was true or not didn’t matter, because Jake wasn’t planning to relax his vigilance.

In that sense, it was good to have Becky nearby so that he could keep an eye on her. If he’d come without her, he likely would have worried about her the whole time they were apart. Bringing her to the Shillington house wasn’t much of a risk. By all reports, Gerald himself was too frail to pose a personal threat, and if he was behind the recent incidents, it was highly unlikely he would order a move against them while they were visiting him.

Yet there was another reason why Jake hadn’t tried all that hard to dissuade Becky from accompanying him. One way or another, this case was going to be over soon and she would no longer need him. He wanted to enjoy her presence as long as he could.

He parked beside a marble fountain in the center of the cobblestone courtyard that led to the front entrance, then reached over to squeeze Becky’s hands. “You don’t need to do this,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time before the results of the second test come in.”

“Sure, but what if something else goes wrong to delay it? Gerald Shillington has to know who I am. You don’t honestly expect me to sit back and wait for a lab to call, do you?”

No, he didn’t. Especially since the DNA test probably wouldn’t give her the answer she hoped for.

A maid met them at the door and showed them into an elegant sitting room done in pale blue and peach. Jake suspected one of the spindly-looking side tables alone was worth more than he made in a year.

Ten minutes later, Cynthia Shillington Brown swept into the room. She was as elegant as her house, from the tasteful string of pearls at her throat to her ivory silk suit. Jake knew she had to be in her midsixties, yet her hair was jet-black and there were no signs of age on her porcelain-smooth face. Not much trace of expression, either, until she spotted Becky.

Her steps faltered. For a split second, her entire body seemed to recoil. Her eyes flashed with something that looked like recognition. She recovered quickly and extended her hand to Jake. “Mr. McMasters, I wasn’t aware you were bringing someone else.”

He took a moment to scrutinize her as he shook her hand. Her features had smoothed back into porcelain, yet in spite of her composed smile, her fingers were cold and less than steady. “This is Becky Peters, a friend of mine from Charlotte.”

“I see.” Cynthia didn’t offer to shake hands with Becky. Instead she returned to the doorway and quickly slid a pair of pocket doors closed. She waved them toward a grouping of chairs near an empty fireplace, choosing a wing chair for herself. “I would offer you some refreshments but I’m afraid I must leave for an appointment shortly. How can I help you?”

“We’ll try not to take up much of your time,” Jake said. He waited until Becky sat, then lowered himself to the chair beside hers. “What we’d really like is to speak with your father.”

“I’m sorry. As I told you on the phone, it’s not possible. He isn’t in good health.”

“We understand that and we wouldn’t stay long,” Becky said. “We just need to ask him a few questions.”

“You must be aware that I have taken over his position at the company,” Cynthia replied, straightening the cuffs of her jacket sleeves. “Anything you need to know, you could ask me.”

“It’s not business,” Jake said. He stacked his hands on his cane and leaned forward. “It’s a personal matter.”

“My father used to work for him on his NASCAR team,” Becky explained. “His name is Floyd Peters.”

“The Shillington team was disbanded decades ago, Ms. Peters. Although I appreciate your interest, I doubt whether my father would remember every one of his employees.”

Something was off here, Jake thought. After her initial shocked reaction, Cynthia was avoiding looking at Becky altogether. And why had she bothered to close the doors if she had planned to keep their meeting brief? He felt his curiosity stir. “Perhaps you would remember him, Mrs. Brown.”

Cynthia laughed delicately as she turned toward him. “I think not, Mr. McMasters. I had very little to do with my father’s NASCAR phase. I was too busy with the company.”

“You must have followed racing to some extent. You married the Shillington team’s principal driver.”

Her smile had been artificial to begin with. It disappeared altogether. “My husband lost interest in racing many years ago.”

“That’s a shame,” Jake said. “I understood that Shanks had a lot of potential.”

“Oh, I’d almost forgotten that horrid nickname.”

“He would have known Becky’s father, too.”

“Possibly.” Cynthia fingered her pearls. “I really couldn’t say. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Mrs. Brown,” Becky said quickly. “Do you know anything about a private adoption your father arranged thirty-one years ago?”

“Adoption? Heavens, no. My father wouldn’t have been involved in anything of the sort. Is that what you wished to speak with him about?”

“It’s really important,” Becky said.

“Well, if you think to find information here, you’re obviously misguided.”

“Since we can’t see Gerald, maybe some other member of your family could help us,” Jake said. “Could we speak with your husband, Mrs. Brown? As I said, he might remember Floyd Peters.”

“My husband is currently away on business.” Cynthia stood abruptly and walked to the doorway. She slid the doors open. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must leave for my appointment.”

Jake took his business card from his pocket and laid it on the nearest table as he rose to his feet. “I’ll leave my number with you in case you think of something that might help us.”

“I doubt I will,” Cynthia said. “Good day, Mr. McMasters, Ms. Peters. The maid will show you out.”

Jake put his free hand on the small of Becky’s back as they returned to the car. He could feel her frustration in the stiffness of her stride, but short of forcing their way through the house to find Gerald, there was nothing more they could do here.

Still, the visit hadn’t been a total loss. Cynthia had obviously been nervous about something even before Becky had brought up the topic of the adoption. Yet she hadn’t seemed surprised by Becky’s question. That was odd. So was her reluctance to look at Becky. She’d practically given them the bum’s rush when he’d mentioned talking to her husband.

Now all he had to do was figure out why.

C
YNTHIA PICKED UP
the business card the detective had left, ripped it into quarters and slipped the pieces into her jacket pocket. The girl had been here, in her home. No longer a
looming problem or an unpleasant memory but a presence as solid as the Hepplewhite side chair she’d been sitting on. How could this be happening?

It had been like seeing a ghost. The resemblance had been uncanny. If she had been a few inches shorter, and if her hair hadn’t been streaked with blond, the Peters girl would be the spitting image of her mother the year she’d been born. And she’d been right here where anyone could have seen her. Where Hank could have walked in at any time and met her. One look and he would know. He would ask questions. He would find out…

No, Hank wouldn’t have walked in, Cynthia reminded herself. He’d moved into a hotel. He’d left behind every suit she’d bought him, all his tailored shirts and custom-made shoes and had taken only what he’d been able to stuff into his old suitcase. His goodbye to Gerald had been longer than his goodbye to her.

But he’d be back. Once this business with the Peters girl was over, everything would return to the way it used to be. Cynthia couldn’t conceive of a life without Hank. It was impossible. He was
hers.

She curled her fingers until she felt her nails bite into her palms. She welcomed the pain. It steadied her. She couldn’t allow herself to panic.

Yet how much longer could she hold on? She hadn’t heard from Bocci for almost a week. He had promised he was going to eliminate Becky Peters. She’d even paid him the first installment of the money they’d agreed upon. Obviously he’d lied, and now he wasn’t returning her calls. What if McMasters managed to contact Hank? What if he brought the girl to their meeting?

Cynthia could no longer count on her husband’s loyalty to blind him to the truth. He wouldn’t understand her the way
her father did. He wouldn’t forgive what she had done to keep him. Neither would the law.

She left the sitting room, walked down the hall to her father’s study and went straight to the painting that hung on the wall. It was a portrait of herself, done shortly after her college graduation. Before she’d met Hank and fallen in love. Before all of this had started. She grasped the edge of the frame, swung it away from the wall and opened the safe that was concealed behind it.

This was all Daddy’s fault, she decided. She shouldn’t have counted on him to begin with. It had been a mistake to rely on Bocci, too. She had run out of options. Her only choice now was to deal with the matter herself.