this is Natalie Drummond.”
“Ms. Drummond.” Clint gifted her with a nod.
“Ms. Drummond will explain her situation to you while I make a call to Lieutenant Russell.”
Clint invited Drummond to have a seat. Rather than go to her office, Jess went to Buddy’s and closed the door. When he’d ended his call, she said, “We need a conference call with Russell about our first client. She says she shot a man who is now missing.”
Buddy raised his eyebrows as he set the phone to speaker and made the call. “You always did attract the strange ones.”
He needn’t remind her.
Three rings and Russell answered. Jess quickly explained the situation and asked for any insights the lieutenant could provide.
“We received the call early this morning,” Russell confirmed. “I have to tell you, I think maybe the lady is a little wrong in the head.”
Jess was immensely grateful for the thick brick walls of the historic building that helped ensure privacy between offices. “What does that mean, Lieutenant?” If the man said Drummond was hormonal or flighty, Jess might just walk the few blocks to the Birmingham Police Department and kick his butt on principal.
“About two years ago Natalie Drummond had a fall down the stairs of that mansion her daddy left her. She was banged up pretty good, but it was the brain injury that left her with big problems. According to her family, she still suffers with the occasional memory lapse and reasoning issue.”
“She had a traumatic brain injury?” Jess frowned and rubbed at the resulting lines spanning her forehead. Even two years later, an injury like that could explain Drummond’s uncertainty as to the sequence of recent events.
“That’s the story according to her brother, Heath Drummond,” Russell confirmed.
Now there was a name Jess recognized. “As in Drummond Industries?”
“The one and only,” Russell confirmed. “The brother says she hasn’t been the same since the fall. She spent months in rehab. He thinks maybe she’s having some kind of relapse. About two months ago, she started insisting that someone was coming into her house at night. Every time she told the story it was a little different. The brother decided she was hallucinating. Apparently that can happen with TBIs. This morning she called 9-1-1 and claimed she’d shot a man. We arrive and there’s no body. No blood. No signs of an altercation. Nothing. There was no weapon found on the premises, yet she swears she discharged a .38 at an intruder. She also swears she left him bleeding on the floor.”
Jess exchanged a look with Buddy.
“You believe she imagined the whole thing,” Buddy said.
“At this point, yeah, that’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
“Thanks so much, Lieutenant.” Before ending the call, Jess assured him she would pass along any information she might discover relevant to the case. To Buddy she said, “Whether she shot anyone or not, it sounds as if Ms. Drummond needs our help.”
“I guess we have our first case.” Buddy came around to the front of his desk and offered his hand. “I’ll leave the logistics to you. I have another investigator to interview over at Cappy’s.”
Jess took his hand and struggled to her feet. Cappy’s Corner Grill was a cop hangout over on 29th that served the best burgers in town. Local cops, private investigators and bounty hunters frequently used Cappy’s for unofficial staff meetings.
“Clint is the right investigator for this one,” Jess said, the wheels inside her head already turning. She remembered well how cocky the detective had been when he’d first joined her major crimes team, but time had softened his hard edges.
Buddy shot her a wink as they exited his office. “Good thing, since he’s our only investigator.”
“True.” Jess turned to the office at the end of the hall where Clint was interviewing their first client. Whatever troubles Natalie Drummond faced, real or imagined, Jess would see that she received the help she needed.
No one should have to fight her demons alone.
Southwood Road
Mountain Brook
6:00 p.m.
Clint pulled into the driveway behind Natalie Drummond. He surveyed the place she called home and blew out a long, low whistle. If the lady lived here—the estate looked more like a castle than a home—then she was loaded. He should have realized she was related to the Drummonds of Birmingham.
He climbed out of his Audi and strolled up to her BMW as she opened the door. When she emerged her lips tilted the slightest bit with a shaky smile. “I appreciate you being able to start right away. I was afraid it would be days or even weeks before I could retain the services I needed.”
“I’ll work as quickly as possible to get to the bottom of the trouble, Ms. Drummond. No one should be afraid in their own home.” Even if it was large enough to host the next governor’s summit.
“You should call me Natalie.” She exhaled a big breath and sent a worried glance back at the street.
“Natalie,” he repeated. “As long as you call me Clint.”
She nodded, and then led the way to the front door. When she fished the keys from her bag, he reached for them. “Why don’t I go in first?”
Obviously relieved, she turned over the keys.
As he opened the door the first detail he noted was the lack of a warning from the security system. “You don’t arm your system when you leave the house?”
“With all that happened this morning, I suppose I forgot.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Like I said, I didn’t go back in the house after the police left. I couldn’t.”
He handed the keys back to her, placed a hand at the small of her back and ushered her across the threshold. He surveyed the entry hall. The ceiling soared high above a grand balcony on the second floor. A large painting hung on the broad expanse of wall that flanked the ornate staircase. He recognized Natalie as a child of around ten or twelve in the painting.
“My family,” she said, following his gaze. “My parents are both gone now. There’s my younger sister, April, and my older brother, Heath. Heath runs the family business and April is a trophy wife who specializes in fund-raising.” She said the last with something less than pride as she placed her purse and keys on a table near the door. “The kitchen is on the right at the end of the hall. That’s where...it happened.”
Clint hesitated, the sticky notes on the mirror above the hall table snagging his attention. There were several yellow notes and one pink one. Leave the keys and your purse here. Lock the door. Arm the security system. The pink note read Check the peephole before opening the door.
“I don’t need them as much as I used to,” she said with a noticeable resignation
