Stuart settled back into his chair, the tension in his regal frame receding marginally.
Stuart Norcross was one of Chicago’s leading entrepreneurs. Despite the struggling economy, Stuart had taken his custom personal chef service nationwide. Having devoted most of his life to building his business, he had only in the past few years taken time for a true personal life. He’d met and married a wonderful woman and they’d had their first child just two years ago.
Victoria checked her notes. “His name is Troy Benson. Jane Sutton, one of our investigators specifically trained for finding the missing, has located Mr. Benson and is preparing for contact. I expect to have feedback no later than tomorrow afternoon.”
“Outstanding.” Stuart smiled, his relief palpable. “I knew I could depend on your agency, Victoria.”
“Thank you, Stuart. We pride ourselves on thorough, efficient work.”
Stuart inclined his head and studied her a moment. “Do you have any idea as to why Mr. Benson left the scene so suddenly?”
One week ago Stuart’s wife, Reese, had visited an old friend in Meriden. Driving back to Chicago late that evening in the pouring rain, their son asleep in his car seat, Reese had braked hard to avoid a dog and lost control of the vehicle. The car had plunged off the road and into a dangerously deep ravine. Thankfully a thicket of small trees had stopped the vehicle before it crashed headlong into the rocks below. Badly injured, Reese had realized that the protection of the trees wouldn’t last but there was nothing she could do. The sound of splintering wood and straining metal had warned that if she and the baby didn’t get out of the car in a hurry, they would surely plunge to the bottom any second.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a man appeared. He rescued the baby from his car seat and barely got Reese out of the driver’s seat before the car broke through the trees and pitched to the bottom of the ravine. After checking their injuries and calling for help, the man disappeared during the chaos of the police and rescue personnel’s arrival on the scene.
“Not just yet,” Victoria explained. “We believe the man is using an alias.” At Stuart’s surprised look, she added, “There could be any number of reasons that have nothing to do with criminal activity. A former celebrity.” She flared her hands. “A recluse for purely personal reasons. That’s why we’re going to take a cautious approach from this point forward. Though I understand that you’re very grateful for what Mr. Benson did, it would be in your best interest to know who this man is and what his motives for seclusion are before moving forward with a meeting between the two of you.”
Stuart nodded. “I suppose you’re right. I certainly don’t want to endanger my family by becoming involved with a man with a troubled past.”
“Unfortunately,” Victoria offered, “it goes with the territory, Stuart.” She knew this all too well. “Wealth and power can sometimes prove a magnet for those seeking easy money. Self-protection is essential. If we uncover disturbing details perhaps it would be wisest to show your gratitude anonymously through my investigator.”
“So his name is definitely not Troy Benson? How did you find him?”
“My investigator, Jane, used the description your wife gave of the man who rescued her to start the search. Since the man was thought to be on foot that night, our first assumption would be that he lived nearby. Along that deserted stretch of road, there are only a few scattered communities. The occasional farm, but not much else. We focused on anything within walking distance.”
“Reese vividly recalls catching a glimpse of someone as her car spun out of control,” Stuart confirmed. “She believes he was, indeed, on foot.”
“That being the case,” Victoria went on, “we assumed that the man was likely from somewhere nearby. Jane checked the surrounding communities until she found someone matching the description. He goes by the name Troy Benson and he works at a diner in Plano.”
“If your investigator hasn’t spoken to this man yet, how can she be sure it’s him—other than the description my wife gave, I mean? This Troy Benson could simply be someone who looks like the man who rescued my family. Is she sure it’s him?”
Again, Stuart’s anxiousness was showing. He wanted this man found, but he also wanted to find the hero he had created in his mind. “Reese stated that the man who rescued her cut his left forearm as he pulled her from the damaged car, correct?”
Stuart sat forward a little. “Yes. Yes, she did. Does this Troy Benson have an injury consistent with what my wife recalls?”
“He does. Jane has him under surveillance and is hoping for an opportunity to lift a latent print. We can have a friend at the bureau, as well as our Chicago PD liaison, run the print through the systems to see if he shows up in any databases.”
“You’ll keep me informed?” Stuart asked, his expression clearly crestfallen.
“Absolutely.”
Victoria’s client stood, sighed. “The waiting game it is, then.”
“It won’t be long,” Victoria assured him. “Trust me, Stuart, Jane will work as quickly as possible.”
When Stuart had taken his leave, Victoria stood for a long moment staring at the door that separated her office from the small private lobby where Mildred greeted clients and took care of Victoria’s calendar.
Waiting was the hardest thing to do.
A person’s whole life was spent waiting on one thing or another. For Christmas to arrive. To find love. For the safe birth of a child…to live without fear.
Waiting was all Victoria could do for now as well.
Chapter Three
Plano, Illinois, 4:30 p.m.
The Sunshine Diner was filled to capacity as usual. Jane selected the only vacant stool at the counter to facilitate a better view of the kitchen’s serving window.
An apron-clad Troy Benson set two plates on the serving window ledge and announced, “Order up.”
With his shirtsleeves pushed up, the bandage on his left arm was visible.
“You ready to order?”
Jane dragged her attention from the window to the waitress who’d stopped on the other side of the counter. “I’ll have the special.” Burger and fries. A girl couldn’t go wrong with the basics.
The waitress, Patsy, scratched the order on her pad, flashed a smile and headed over to post the order on the cook’s wheel in the service window.
Benson glanced at Jane as he tugged her order from the wheel. Jane held his gaze, wanting him to know she wasn’t here for the food. She’d come in and out the past couple of days. She felt certain he realized she was watching him, but he hadn’t gotten nervous just yet.
She’d been cautious with her questioning of the locals. Not wanting to spook him, she’d resisted talking to the waitresses or the busboy in the diner.
Benson drove a beat-up old truck. The license plate was registered to a Troy Benson, originally from Michigan. His driver’s license
