Chapter Twenty-Two

MIRANDA USED HER key to let herself into the condo.

There was a time when she wouldn’t have thought twice about doing this, but now, with Trey here, she was always cautious. She dreaded running into him.

But she’d spoken to her dad this morning, and he’d let her know that he’d be at the condo alone for most of the day. “Trey has several job interviews lined up downtown, and he says it’s just easier to spend the day down there, rather than go back and forth.”

When he told her that, Miranda’s mind immediately went to a meme she’d seen a lot on Facebook. It was of Marcia Brady of the Brady Bunch fame. She was saying, “Sure, Jan.” It wasn’t so much that she didn’t believe Trey had some interviews lined up; it was that she didn’t believe anything that came out of that con man’s mouth.

Especially now.

Now that she had proof.

She’d met with Aida Conkle the day before. The older woman had agreed to meet her at a little café on Forty-Fifth in the Wallingford neighborhood. Miranda readily agreed because she loved the fact that the café carried vegan doughnuts from Mighty O and because she could walk there easily from campus.

As she neared Java Jive, she spotted Aida sitting at a small table near the front window. She looked like someone’s grandma, wearing a cotton housedress in blue and green plaid and a navy cardigan sweater. Pince-nez glasses and her frizzy gray hair pulled into a careless bun further emphasized the private detective’s matronly qualities. No one would ever guess she was a private eye. Although she was small of frame, she had a cup of tea and a piece of lemon pie in front of her, with a mountain of meringue atop its bright yellow custard.

Normally, Miranda would have forgotten everything, seduced by the siren allure of that damn pie, but yesterday she was intent because Aida said she’d completed her report on Bruno Purdy.

What Aida had imparted to her was valuable.

And it completely killed Miranda’s appetite.

Now, as she stood near the front door calling out, “Dad?” she felt bad for the news she was about to lay on him. The file Aida had given her weighed heavy in her backpack, not so much because of its thickness, but because of the weight of what the information might do to her father.

“Hello?”

Her father emerged in the hallway, coming out of his home office. He looked as though he’d been sleeping, but Miranda knew the appearance for what it was—he’d been working, deep in the lives and world of his imaginary characters.

She loved the frumpiness of him, the worn plaid flannel shirt, khakis, and wool socks. His hair stuck up every which way, as though he’d rolled out of bed minutes before. His eyes, red-rimmed behind his oval computer glasses, testified further how deep he’d gone under for this session.

Still, she took comfort in that he was preoccupied in something other than Trey. And at the same time, she was dismayed that she’d was going to shatter that preoccupation.

She hoped she could only make him believe what she had to tell him. Of course, there’d be resistance on his part, if for no other reason than we have a natural tendency to try to explain away anything that makes us look like fools. Most people don’t want to admit to being wrong.

“Hey there.” Miranda basked for a moment in his look, his perception of her. Its effect was the same as sunshine on her face. Without being in the least conceited, she embraced the joy that lit up his features when he saw her.

“Hey.” She gave him a quick hug.

“I got lunch all ready for us. I tried out that vegan blog and got busy—tofu egg salad on rye with homemade oil and vinegar slaw. And just to not be disgustingly healthy, a few of those chips you’re so fond of.”

“Sounds delish.” Miranda tried to put some enthusiasm behind her words. She had no appetite.

She asked if she could help, and he simply directed her to the dining room table with a wave. “It won’t take me but a minute. Got it all ready.” He paused before heading into the kitchen. “It’s nice having you all to myself. Seems like it’s been too long since we’ve had any father-daughter quality time.”

He didn’t wait for her to reply and she was glad. He bustled about the kitchen, getting out plates, flatware, and glasses. “What do you want to drink, sweetie?”

“Water’s fine, Dad.”

“Pellegrino?”

“Tap is good.”

In moments, lunch was laid out before her. How a table filled with food lovingly and thoughtfully prepared could cause her stomach to churn was a paradox, but she understood the reason. She glanced down at the sandwich on her plate, the pile of Ruffles, and next to it, the slaw. “Perfect,” she whispered, the bile rising in the back of her throat. She reached down to lift her backpack from the floor.

Daddy was oblivious and dug into the meal with gusto. “This really does taste like egg salad. If I was blindfolded, I’m not sure I could tell the difference. Amazing!”

“It’s the black salt and the turmeric,” Miranda said. “Fools your sense of smell and your sight.”

“Whatever. It’s good. I could eat this all the time.”

He went on eating until Miranda reluctantly interrupted him with the four words no one ever wants to hear. “We need to talk.”

He glanced up from his food. “Aren’t you gonna eat?”

“Maybe in a minute.” To be sociable, she popped a chip in her mouth. She withdrew the red file folder from her backpack and set it on the table.

Her father eyed it. “What’s that?”

Miranda sighed. You really have no idea what’s coming, do you? She knew she could still back out, leave him in blissful ignorance. He was a big boy. It would be easier. But easier for whom? And for how long?

No, that’s not an option. Not when you know what you know.

“You’re not gonna like this,” she began, referring both to the fact that what she was about to tell him would shatter any illusions he might have about his new husband, but also because she’d have to inform him of how she’d gone behind his back, snooping deeply into the life of someone she knew he cared about.

She swallowed. Her mouth and throat were dry and she took a long swallow of water to help. “I hired a private detective.” She figured that action would be her first stumbling block. She expected a “How dare you?” but was surprised when he simply set down his sandwich, sat back, and regarded her with his head cocked. “You did?”

She nodded. “We needed to know more about Trey.”

“We?”

“Well, I did. I’m not blinded by love like some people I won’t mention.” She tried to smile, but imagined her attempt came out as sickly. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Something has seemed off about him since the moment we met. It didn’t help that when I, yes, snooped around a bit, I saw another name, Bruno Purdy, in his papers.”

Connor slid his plate over and placed his elbows on the table. “I know. I told you—Trey changed his name. Long story. He told me when we got married. We talked about that, Miranda.”

“I know we did. And if it was just that, Daddy, I wouldn’t be worried. Or at least not much.”

He sighed. “What worries you, sweetheart?”

She opened the folder.

“For one, did you know his family died in a suspicious house fire when he was a teenager? And he was the only one conveniently not home when the arson occurred? Because it was arson. The investigators never had enough evidence to prove who did it though.”

“Yeah, he told me about that too. And while it might have been convenient, as you put it, that he didn’t perish in the blaze, it had nothing to do with him. He was heartbroken and has been ever since. The loss scarred him for life. He can barely talk about it. It was his family.” He started to get up from the table, obviously shaken.

“Daddy! I didn’t want to upset you.”

He stood, not moving. “Really? You come here and tell me you hired a professional to look into the man I married and you expect me to be, what? Grateful? How about outraged? Because, honey, what this says is you have no faith in my judgment. Let alone what it says about how you look at my husband.”

Tears stood in his eyes.

Miranda debated whether she should get up and leave. Tell him they could talk later, after he had a chance to calm down. But she knew she would just be avoiding the difficulty of the conversation, so she persisted, as much as it hurt her and as much as she knew it would wound him.

Softly, she said, “I expected this. I knew you’d be upset, hurt, mad. But I also want you to understand I didn’t do this for kicks. I did it out of genuine concern. For you. You always told me to trust my gut, and that’s what I did. And I was right too. Because there’s more…” She opened the folder.

He eyed it. Was he a little paler than he was a moment ago? There were several sheets to the report and attached to it, copies of fake IDs and arrest records, convictions. What there was not was evidence of a law degree. What there was not was any known address for the past several years.

Of course, Connor couldn’t read the report or the attachments from across the room. She closed the folder. “Listen, obviously neither of us feels like eating anymore. I’m sorry you went to the trouble. It’ll all keep. Have it for dinner. Anyway, why don’t you go sit down, and I’ll clear the table?”

“And then what?”

“And then we take a walk along the Fremont cut. Just you and me. We talk. Let me tell you what I found. Keep an open mind; that’s all I ask. Well, actually it’s not all. Bear in mind, I was doing this because I love you so much. If I can prevent you from getting hurt, I can prevent myself from the same. Can you do that, Daddy? Can you give me this much? Just put aside your anger at me and listen?”

He sighed and gave no verbal response. He disappeared into his office.

Miranda set about clearing the table, certain he’d come with her. And knowing what she had to tell him should, at the very least, make him think twice.

 

THE CUT WAS quiet on this weekday afternoon. After they passed out of Fremont proper, they were in an area that was mostly industrial shipping yards. Miranda always like the flavor of this area, its kind of seedy testimony to hard work and seafaring dreams. Chain-link fences, tall ships, the tang of sea air.

For a long while, Miranda simply walked alongside her father. If her nerves weren’t tingling and her stomach not churning, this could have been a pleasant stroll. The sky was cloudy but broken up with an almost electric shade of blue. The air was cool and crisp. A light breeze lifted her hair.

There was no way, really, to soften the blow of what she had to say. She was opening her mouth when Connor spoke.

“Spill it.” He sighed. “You went to all this trouble and expense, I imagine, so let’s hear it.”

“You sound so resigned, as if you already have your mind made up.”

“Listen. You can’t control how I feel or how I’m going to react to whatever it is you want to tell me.”

“Fair enough.” Miranda had left the folder back at the condo, on the dining room table. The realization made her skin prickle. What if Trey came home early and saw it?

She tried to think it wouldn’t matter because there was nothing in it that wasn’t true. Aida had backed up all her work with public records and easily verifiable data. Maybe it would be good if he’d see it; then he’d know she’d exposed him, and he’d clear out. Go back under the rock from which he’d crawled out.

Whatever. There was little she could do about it now. Now, she needed to do a quick rundown of the gist of what the private eye had found.

“Trey, aka Bruno Purdy, is not who you think he is.”

“Oh, Miranda—”

She cut him off. “You need to listen. Don’t interrupt. It won’t take me long. Everything I’m going to tell you is backed up in that folder I left back home.” She shuddered again as she thought of it being discovered, and she realized she was afraid of Trey, really afraid.

“So, Bruno Purdy has an arrest record. A fairly long one too. It’s all in the folder, but the highlights are that he’s a petty crook. He doesn’t have anything major, like murder, rape, kidnapping, armed robbery, but what he does have is a string of complaints.”

Connor stared at her, slowing his pace.

“The arrests and protective orders all come from one group—gay men. At least that’s what I suspect. Sexual orientation isn’t usually listed in public records. But all the complaints came from single men, usually older, usually well-off. He’s been convicted of aggravated assault, theft of personal property, and stalking. Lots of the latter. He’s lived all over. And those things he mentioned? About living downtown and being an attorney?” Oh, how she hated to tell him this. “Lies. Pure, simple, and indisputable.” She felt like she was stabbing her father. But he needed to know. “Daddy, he doesn’t have a law degree. He doesn’t even have a degree. He did take, ten years ago, some courses at a community college to be a court reporter but dropped out after only one quarter. He never lived downtown, or if he did, it was on the streets. He has been arrested for vagrancy. His last known address? One of those fleabag motels on Aurora.”

She stopped when she noticed Connor had paused. She turned to look at him. The hurt and confusion was writ large across his features. And it made her ache inside. She reminded herself that it was the information and who it traced back to that caused the pain, but it was hard to shake the guilt of feeling she was somehow responsible for his hurt.

And she was. She was. She could have left him in blissful ignorance. But the funny thing about that state was that it never lasted. It would hurt more later. Much more. She didn’t want to think what letting things go could lead to.

“In short, Daddy, he’s left a trail of broken men behind him. San Francisco, Chicago, Miami, LA…to name a few. Men who have been swindled, some physically hurt.

“He’s a con artist. And as much as I despise telling you all this, you have to know. And you have to get away.”

They faced each other across the wide concrete path, staring. Her father gazed at her as though he didn’t recognize her.

And then, he turned and began walking away.

“Daddy?” She was panic-stricken.

He increased his pace, away, toward the blue bridge in the distance. The sound of an air horn, a boat alerting the bridge it needed to raise to accommodate its mast sounded, and Miranda thought it was her own scream for a moment. She jumped.

She began to hurry after him, calling.

He stopped. Turned. His face was anguish personified. “No. Don’t follow me. Leave me alone. Just leave me alone.” He held up his hand. Miranda stopped, stunned, and dropped her arms, which she hadn’t realized were reaching out, to her sides.

“Okay, okay,” she said softly. His posture, his expression—both told a tale of being unreachable. She could only hope he would soften, that she hadn’t crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.

She watched as he hurried away, shoulders hunched. She had to use all of her restraint not to run after him, throw her arms around him. Soothe the pain she’d brought.

“Read the folder, Daddy. It’s all there.”

If he’d heard her, he gave no indication.

She stood watching the departing figure of her dad, thinking that if she had eaten lunch, she would be throwing up.