style="font-size:15px;"> “I thought if you had some time tonight, you could go over the contents of the file and decide where you want to start.” He followed her into a small downstairs living room and, waiting until she’d seated herself on the sofa, sat in a nearby chair. He looked with interest around the room he’d merely glanced at his first time through. There was a battered recliner in one corner, facing a TV and stereo setup. It didn’t take much imagination to figure that the chair had been well used by the man who had lived here. Above it hung a sampler, on which someone had painstakingly embroidered the words Integrity Above All Else.
He gestured to it. “Your work?”
“My one-and-only attempt. It was my dad’s favorite saying. He had what some might consider an outdated code of honor.”
James thought of the family crest that hung above the doorway in his family home. Honor. Duty. Devotion. It was the creed that his father had lived by. He and his brothers had grown up attempting to do the same. “Not everyone,” he murmured.
When her gaze turned quizzical, he opened the file he carried, took out the contract inside. Withdrawing a gold pen from his suit jacket, he handed both to her. “I had my lawyer draw up this contract. The terms are outlined clearly in it, and they’re not negotiable. We already discussed this, but you’ll want to read the confidentiality clause near the bottom. If you or anyone in your employ violates it in the slightest, I’ll direct my attorney to prosecute to the fullest extent of the law. Am I understood?”
“As you say, we discussed that earlier.” Her voice was cool. She scanned the rest of the document, and he used the time to watch her. It was no hardship. She’d tamed that unruly tangle of hair by hauling it up in a knot and securing it somehow. The simple cotton shirt she wore was marred with dust, no doubt encountered upstairs, as were her shorts, which showed an intriguing length of slender thigh.
Not for the first time he noted that she didn’t fit his notion of a private investigator. If he was lucky, she wouldn’t fit anyone else’s, either. Once she’d left his office, he’d been plagued by doubts about the wisdom of his choice. The feeling was too foreign to be borne comfortably. He could put an army of more experienced investigators on the matter, but she might be able to provide the one thing that no one else could—a direct line to her father’s old contacts. It was possible that one of them knew something about the case he’d worked that hadn’t been contained in the man’s report. That, coupled with his reluctance to spread the word of these threats, had cemented his decision. He could spare a week. And if she failed to come up with anything new— He gave a mental shrug. Then there would be time enough to select another individual.
When she was finished, he took the contract, studying the signature with a sense of amusement. “Your full name is Victoria?”
He noted her barely concealed wince. “Use it at your peril. And be warned that the last guy to call me by it lost his right front bicuspid.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that. Do you have a cell?” When she rattled off a number, he jotted it down on the top of the contract, before setting it aside and handing her the hinged portfolio he’d brought with him. “You’ll find mine on the outside of the top file folder. Don’t hesitate to call, regardless of the hour.”
“Are you sure?” Her tone was light, but the expression in her eyes was speculative. “I don’t want to be responsible for interrupting business. Or whatever.”
“Business will take a back seat to your reports, and ‘whatever’ will have to wait until we get this—” he nodded toward the portfolio she’d set on the table beside her “—taken care of.” Upon reflection, a personal life of any type hadn’t been a priority for much too long. Few women tolerated being set aside once he became embroiled in a particularly challenging contract. He tried, and failed, to recall the last time he’d been involved in a halfway serious relationship. If he was actually spending time wondering if his P.I.’s legs were as silky as they looked, perhaps his sister, Ana, was right, and he was becoming too focused. Not that he’d ever admit as much to her.
“As long as you’re here, I did think of a question earlier.” She slid to a more comfortable position in her seat and crossed one long line of leg over the other. “Who was the third person in the car with your parents?”
It took a moment for him to switch mental gears. “Lucy Rappaport. She was the young wife of our production manager and a good friend of my mother’s. They’d been on their way to New Orleans, where my father had business. The women were going to shop and have dinner there.” The subject brought him back with a crude jolt to the business at hand. “She and her husband had an eighteen-month-old son.”
The tragedy that day hadn’t been limited to his family. Marcus Rappaport still worked for them, having risen high enough in the corporation to be his right-hand man. Although he was considered one of the most eligible men in the parish, he’d never remarried. Some losses, James knew, left a void that couldn’t be filled.
“The time frame of this case will make it challenging,” Tori stated. “Witnesses move away or die. Memories fade. But technology has grown more advanced, too.” She gave a shrug. “Maybe that will prove to be to our advantage.” She began pulling things from the file he’d brought and arranging them in piles around her on the sofa, in an order that made sense only to her. “At any rate, I intend to reinterview the people who processed the accident scene, at least those I can get hold of. Is the name of the salvage yard the car was sold to included in this file?”
“The remains of the car were destroyed long ago.” And he knew that precisely because he’d already attempted to trace it. “There’s nothing left to examine with new technology.” James felt a surge of impatience, which he tempered. There ought to be ways to find the truth that he hadn’t thought of…ought to be avenues to explore that he hadn’t considered. Not for the first time he questioned whether he’d made the right choice pursuing this thing.
Then he thought again of the note that had arrived today. Your parents were murdered. You’re next. And then it was really quite simple to recall just why he’d gone down this path. And just how badly he needed answers, one way or another.
He shifted in his chair, tamped down frustration. There was a sense of powerlessness in putting this into someone else’s hands, however close he intended to supervise. He didn’t much care for the sensation. “I received another message today.”
Her gaze was sharp. “What did it say?”
Lifting a shoulder, he said, “More of the same. But it did mention my parents again. If this was simply about extortion, I would have expected to receive the demand for cash already. Or at least some indication of what information the sender has to trade.”
“He could just be whetting your appetite until you’re anticipating just that, before striking with the promise of more for a price.” Her head was still bent over the file, but her voice was certain.
“Sounds like you have a fair idea of how this guy would think.”
“Well, I have met my share of dirt bags. And we don’t know the sender is a guy.” She did look up now, and caught his gaze on her. “Unsigned notes give a guarantee of anonymity, and they’re nonconfrontational. They could just as easily be from a woman. But I tend to agree with you. I doubt the sender is after cash. The tone of the messages are a bit too personal. Have you made any enemies lately?”
He gave a grim laugh. “Honey, if we’re going to list all my enemies, we’ll be here all night.” From the arrested expression on her face, he’d managed to surprise
