Changeling Detective Agency - Shadows In The Starlight Part 5

His gaze slid away. "I figured, hey-if I could get her alone and talking, maybe she'd say something I could use. A lap dance isn't my idea of a good time, you understand-too many rules, not enough hands."

"You're oversharing," Gwen advised. "Get to the point."

"Jackie offered me a hit of something new. It was like X, she said, only it started out mellow and worked up to wild."

Gwen sat bolt upright. "Please tell me you didn't buy some to test, not on your own time."

"How stupid do I look?" he said indignantly. "I told her I didn't have the money on me, but I could put some together. If this s.h.i.+t was as good as she said, I could maybe put a lot of money together. She promised to set me up with a guy who could get me all I wanted."

"A drug bust," she mused. "Not a bad way to jump-start an official investigation."

"That's my thinking."

"And if you can nail this dealer, maybe he'll give up someone a notch up the ladder. Keep at it long enough, you might eventually tie this to Walsh... if you're still around by the time the leads link up."

He shrugged. "So I'll work other angles, too, and come at it from every which way. You said Walsh was tied in with that attorney whose kid was s.n.a.t.c.hed?"

"Ryan Cody, but that's a dead end. Walsh and Cody were only connected through a third man. He's gone."As she spoke, Gwen had a sudden image of Ian Forest dragging Carl Jamison's body toward an ancient maple tree-and then simply vanis.h.i.+ng. The police hadn't found a trace of the Jamison brothers or the homicidal b.i.t.c.h the two freaks shared. Ian was really, really good at making bodies disappear, and last time Gwen had seen Edmonson, Ian's men were taking him away. She was willing to bet Damian would find Hoffa before he found Edmonson.

Damian's eyes narrowed in speculation. "You know where this guy is, don't you?"

"Haven't got a clue." Since he still looked skeptical, she added, "You remember me telling you what Kate Myers said, about those three bodies that disappeared from the morgue thirty-some years back?"

"Sure."

"Two of them were my parents, the other was the kid they'd swapped me for." She sent him a warning frown to stave off sympathetic commentary and kept going. "I don't know much about... changelings, but apparently we keep a low profile. To the point where when one of us dies, the bodies don't get found."

Damian's eyes held a hundred questions, but he had the sense not to ask most of them. "So you're saying this Edmonson was one of you people?"

"As much as I hate to admit it, yeah, that's what I'm saying."

"And he's dead."

"I never saw a body, but yeah, that'd be my guess."

"No one's filed a missing-person?"

"Not going to happen."

"And if someone wonders where he went?"

"They'll find out someone using his pa.s.sport took a one-way flight to Greece. I did some checking. Trust me, there's no finding this guy."

The cop blew out a long breath. "Okay, then I'll keep looking until I find a better lead."

It was on the tip of Gwen's tongue to remind him that he could disappear as easily as Jamison and Edmonson had. But why bother? He'd listen to her about as well as she'd listened to Frank's words of caution when she was a rookie. Of course, she'd had Frank looking out for her back then. Damian just had Quaid, and Gwen hadn't been too impressed with the way Quaid had watched her back. On top of that, there was the tie between Quaid and Kate Myers. If Kate was dirty, that increased the chances that Quaid was also tainted.

"What about your partner?" she asked. "What does Quaid say about this?"

"Not much. Be careful, watch your back. Keep me posted. Like that."

"Is he working with you?"

Before he could respond, the metallic purr of a high-ticket car caught his attention. The vehicle slowed and pulled off the road to park directly behind them. The headlights flared, brightly illuminating the interior of Damian's car.

Gwen's eyes had always adjusted quickly, so while Damian blinked and cursed, she noted the silvergleam of a tidy little BMW sedan. Marcy Bartlett's car, though what Marcy was doing here at this time of night was anyone's guess. Gwen reached into the pocket of her battered leather jacket for her cell phone and switched it on. Sure enough, there were two messages from Marcy's number.

"What now?" Damian complained, reaching under the seat for his weapon. "Can't a man go off duty?"

She dropped a hand on his shoulder. "There's no problem. That's a friend of mine. She was probably just checking to see who was in the car. I'll call you tomorrow."

She got out of the car and slammed the door. The old hatchback took off, leaving Gwen standing in a small cloud of exhaust fumes.

d.a.m.n, he really did need a new car! Not that she could talk. Her aging Toyota was in the shop, and there it would stay until she came up with the ransom money to pay for a new transmission.

Gwen went over to Marcy's car and tapped on the driver's window. The door opened just enough to allow Marcy to slip out. She shut it quickly behind her.

Despite the late hour, Marcy was still in her lawyer clothes: a trim gray pantsuit, a silk blouse in royal blue, low-heeled black pumps, sapphire studs in her ears. But her usually sleek blond wedge was rumpled and her eye makeup thoroughly smeared. Either she'd been running her hands through her hair and rubbing her eyes-something she did only when her personal life went south-or she'd thrown her clothes back on after a quick tumble.

No doubt Trudy, Marcy's live-in gal pal, would a.s.sume the latter. Calling Trudy possessive was like calling George Dubya conservative-it was a good start.

"Don't you ever answer your phone?" Marcy demanded.

"Yeah, nice to see you, too. Who's in the car that you didn't want me to see?"

Marcy glanced over her shoulder at the idling BMW. "I've got a client for you. I wouldn't have brought him here before talking to you, but this is really important. I want you to promise me that you'll listen to him before you start cursing and throwing things."

A bizarre suspicion reared its head. Gwen folded her arms and studied her friend intently. "You jumped out of that car like a bat out of h.e.l.l, and now the 'listen before you start throwing things' speech? I can only think of one person who'd need this much prep work, but your ex is the last person you'd bring here."

The expression on Marcy's face was all the answer Gwen needed.

"G.o.ddammit, Marcy!" she exploded. "Hasn't Kyle Radcliff done enough damage? How long did it take you to get rid of his a.s.s? How many times did he send you to a doctor before you got rid of him? I didn't risk my career kicking the s.h.i.+t out of him so we could get together later and talk about old times."

Marcy glanced back at the car. "Keep it down," she said urgently. "I had a hard enough time convincing Kyle to talk to you without reminding him of that scene."

"Give me a f.u.c.king break," Gwen retorted. "Face it, Marcy: Your bulls.h.i.+t meter shuts down the minute that guy starts talking. If he came to you with a problem and you ended up bringing him here, you can be d.a.m.n sure that was his intention all along."

The lawyer thought this over, then shrugged. "Whatever his method or motivations, he's here. Look at itthis way: he might be a complete b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but he pays his bills religiously. You said business was slow right now."

"Not that slow."

Marcy seized Gwen's shoulders with both hands, and the expression on her face forestalled Gwen's protests.

"I wouldn't ask you to do this if it wasn't important," she said with quiet intensity. "His son is missing."

Anger and indignation slowly slipped away. In Gwen's corner of the world, a missing kid trumped old grudges every time.

She hadn't heard that Kyle had remarried. He and Marcy had divorced about eight years ago. Factoring in wife-hunting and baby-making time, she figured Kyle's son would be very young. If he looked anything like his father, he'd be fair-haired and too d.a.m.n cute for his own good.

And that was a big problem. Blond boys, aged four and under, were a favorite s.n.a.t.c.h. They were young enough to be attractive to adoptive parents trying to bypa.s.s the system's red tape, and old enough to be of interest to the worst cla.s.s of pedophiles. Not that there was a good cla.s.s of pedophiles, but there were maggots out there who'd buy a preschooler and call him a "throw-down piece." Same idea as an unregistered gun: use it and lose it.

Gwen took a steadying breath and stepped out of her friend's grasp. "How old is the kid?"

"Patrick just turned five. He and his mother have been gone nearly two days now."

The cold, sick feeling in the pit of Gwen's stomach disappeared, washed away by a sudden flood of exasperation.

"The mother's gone, too? Jesus wept, Marcy, why didn't you say so!"

"Kyle is just as worried about his wife as he is his son," she said defensively. When Gwen lifted an eyebrow in pointed challenge, she admitted, "All right! I focused on the kid because I knew it would get your attention."

"Let's review the facts, shall we? Kyle Radcliff has a history of spousal abuse. Wife number one divorces his a.s.s. Good for you. Wife number two takes off with the kid. Good for her. I hope she stays missing."

"Talk to him," Marcy urged. "He's changed, Gwen, I swear it."

"Oh yeah-this is the very first time you've heard that story!"

"It's not Kyle's fault that Erin and Patrick are missing," Marcy went on doggedly. "He's frantic with worry. He loves Patrick. You know how much he wanted kids. Especially a son..."

Her voice caught, and her gray eyes were suddenly brighter than they should be.

Gwen, appalled and enlightened, bit back a heartfelt curse. So that's what was behind this little ambus.h.!.+

Kyle Radcliff, the schmuck, still knew how to push his ex-wife's b.u.t.tons.

Marcy Bartlett was one of those rare people who were equally successful in love and war, which wasn't a bad description of her work as an a.s.sistant DA. Her cross-exam fell just short of vivisection.

Professionally, she was amazing, and her personal game was just as tight. She was in a mostly happy relations.h.i.+p with a pretty and only moderately neurotic lit professor; she was on speaking terms with herfamily; she had good friends, a new condo, a great car, and a fat portfolio that had weathered the tech fallout.

Most people looking at the Marcy Bartlett package would find it hard to understand how she could have put up with Kyle Radcliff. But they'd married young, before Marcy had sorted out the lesbian thing. To complicate matters, she was only twenty-six when she'd been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. They'd caught it in time to save her life, but not her fertility. Unable to have children, ambiguous about her s.e.xuality, Marcy had believed the verbal abuse Kyle dished out. Gwen had seen time and again how small a step it was from verbal abuse to the ER. Marcy had probably bought into the notion that she'd earned her "punishment" long before Kyle had landed the first blow.

Nearly ten years had pa.s.sed since Gwen answered a neighbor's call regarding a domestic disturbance.

She'd been stunned to learn that the victim was the tough young legal aide she'd run into at court two or three times. Gwen had decided that Radcliff had resisted arrest. Fortunately, Radcliff didn't want anyone to know he'd gotten his a.s.s handed to him by a girl half his size. He didn't press charges, and better yet, he finally agreed to give Marcy a divorce and leave her alone.

The memory of his tenacity, even more than the pleading look in Marcy's eyes, convinced Gwen to hear what Radcliff had to say. All things considered, she'd rather have his attention focused on her than on Marcy.

"You go on home," she said at last. "The a.s.shole can call a cab when we've finished talking."

Marcy gave her a quick hug and tapped on the window of the driver's door. The pa.s.senger door opened and a tall blond man climbed out.

Kyle Radcliff looked a lot older than he had the last time Gwen had seen him. There were a few fine lines around his concrete-colored eyes, and his hair was considerably thinner. As he rose from the car, she could see moonlight reflecting on scalp. But he was still fit, perfectly groomed, and wearing a couple thousand dollars worth of suit. Kyle was a corporate lawyer of some sort, and very successful at his job-which was another reason he'd finally agreed to a quick, no-fault divorce. Last Gwen heard, the man had some serious a.s.sets.

He strode around the car and extended his hand, as if she were another attorney who'd agreed to a consult.

"Thank you for seeing me," he said with polite insincerity.

Gwen just looked at his hand, and after a moment it dropped to his side. She turned her back on him and strode to the gate, punched the code into the security box. The iron gates swung inward.

They walked in silence to the garage. Gwen unlocked the small, first-floor room she used as an office, flipped on the light, and nodded toward one of the wingback chairs.

Kyle hitched up his sharply creased trousers and sat, cautiously, as if he suspected the chair was not only wired for high-voltage current but plugged into a faulty outlet.

Gwen settled down behind the table that served as a desk and folded her hands. "So, you have two missing persons."

He seemed relieved to be getting right to business. "My wife, Erin Westland, and our son, Patrick."

"You have pictures?"Kyle reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and took out a wallet-size photo of a pretty young woman and a dark-haired, solemn-faced little boy.

A jolt of something very like recognition surged through Gwen as she studied the woman's face. The features were delicate, her mouth rosebud small, but her eyes were wide and very blue. The only time Gwen had seen eyes that big or that blue was when she looked in a mirror.

But there the similarity ended. This girl was a model of Barbie-doll femininity. Her makeup played up her pink-and-white coloring, and a soft blue sweater clung to impressive curves. Glossy, dark-brown hair fell in soft layers to her shoulders, framing a narrow, heart-shaped face. Her hair on the side nearest little Patrick was tucked behind one ear-an ear that, like Gwen's, was definitely not her best feature.

"How old is Erin?" Gwen asked.

A strange look slid across Kyle's face. "She was twenty-three when we met. That was about eight years ago."

"Really. For someone on the downhill side of thirty, she's holding up pretty well."

"Erin looked young for her age when we met," he said cautiously. "She hasn't changed much since."

"You ever wonder about that?"

He nodded. "Yes, but it didn't become an issue until things started going wrong."

Gwen put down the picture. "Let me guess," she said coldly: "Old habits die hard?"

"As usual, you'd be wrong. I never laid a hand on Erin. She never needed it," he added nastily.

"Don't go there," Gwen warned. "Just tell me your story, so we can get this over with."

Kyle took a deep breath and began to recite. "A couple of years ago, Erin starting having terrible nightmares. She couldn't sleep. Depression set in, and she was getting more and more withdrawn. She's an adopted child, and she became obsessed with finding her birth parents. She wouldn't let me help her-she said it was a personal thing, something she had to do alone. After a while her mood pa.s.sed.

She developed new interests, including a little business of her own. Then Sunday night, she and Patrick went out to pick up a pizza and never came back."

"Two days ago."

"If you're implying I should have come to you sooner, what would the point have been? You're not going to help me."

Ordinarily he would have been right. But three weeks ago she'd changed the name of her business to "Changeling Detective Agency." This was not only an acknowledgement of her ident.i.ty, but a mission statement. There were other changelings out there, and Gwen intended to find them. It was that simple.

"I'd do it," she said curtly. "But first I want to know why you came to me. And don't try to sell me on 'Marcy talked me into it,' because we both know that's bulls.h.i.+t."

Kyle Radcliff was silent for several moments. "I saw you in the courthouse last week, when you came to testify in the Fergusson insurance case. You looked exactly the same as you did ten years ago. I don't know what that means, but I can't shake the feeling that it's important. That perhaps you and Erin are two of a kind-whatever that means. I thought it might give you an edge of some sort."He shook his head and gave a short laugh, as if he'd just overheard his own words and couldn't believe his ears. "The bottom line, I suppose, is I'm desperate enough to try anything."

His litany sparked a connection Gwen hadn't yet made-a prospect that sent her heart racing at near-panic pace.

What if Erin Westland knew far more about a changeling's life than Gwen did? What if she had simply moved on, knowing she'd have to eventually? The thirtysomething mother in Kyle's picture looked like a teenager. Chances were she'd still look like that when her kid was in high school. Maybe she'd figured out what Gwen was just beginning to grasp: she was aging so slowly that she'd probably still look like jailbait in another five, ten, even twenty years.