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Adam stared at the screen on his home computer. It was blank. Again. He’d typed several hundred words, deleted them, then typed several hundred more and deleted them, too. He jumped up from the desk and stalked into the kitchen. He needed more coffee. And some protein.
After grabbing the rest of his spinach-feta omelet breakfast and refilling his mug, he straddled one of the bar stools with the checkerboard backs that Zelda hated so much. Finding he wasn’t really hungry, he dumped the omelet into the garbage and set the plate down on the counter so hard, he half-expected he’d cracked it.
Okay, so he hadn’t slept great and might be a little cranky. Dreams of wide cornflower-blue eyes brimming with tears kept waking him up, and he gave up around four a.m. and got up to watch the news. Then he wished he hadn’t, because the top story was the murder of Reginald Forsythe, III.
RF the younger had embellished his story about the female intruder even more to the point where she’d now become a murderous professional thief who was obviously after Forsythe heirlooms and treasures. And the poor, innocent murdered victim was in the wrong place at the wrong time and killed for trying to protect his son’s property. Right.
If Adam was honest with himself, he had to look the hard truth in the face—what did he really know about Beverly’s past? Except that she was genetically tied to the underhanded, shadowy Forsythe family. What if she were a murderous professional thief, after all? Maybe it was in the genes?
He’d entertained the idea she and Reggie Forsythe were in this together, but it wouldn’t make sense for Forsythe to try to pin the blame on this “female intruder,” if that were the case. Still, could she hate him so much she was willing to put herself at significant risk just to embarrass him? That was some obsession.
Adam grabbed his computer again. He also picked up the notes he’d jotted down from the case, including those following yesterday’s trek to Beverly’s former town and Forsythe’s home. What the hell was he going to put in his report to the chief? If he mentioned Beverly’s family connections to Forsythe, it would be enough to haul in her for extensive grilling and several days warming a seat in a holding cell. Once the mayor, Forsythe, and their combined and formidable legal teams descended on Beverly, she’d be like a prize calf handed over to make ground veal.
But if he didn’t put his discovery in his report, and it later came out, it would be bye-bye Detective Dutton, hello unemployed Dutton. Everything he’d worked for would be dust under the departmental rug that they couldn’t sweep away fast enough. Right now, the only person who knew what Adam knew about Beverly was Strickland at the hardware store. And Adam hadn’t yet told anyone he’d gone there in the first place.
Adam caught his ghostly image reflected back on the computer screen. With his dark circles, unshaved scruff, and faded Boston Bruins t-shirt, he looked like a homeless wino. At the moment, he was feeling like one, too. And as for the smell . . . Adam pinched a piece of his shirt and lifted it to his nose. How many nights had he worn this? It reeked of last night’s pre-bedtime Buffalo wings.
Adam ripped off the shirt, and soon his sweatpants and boxers followed it into the clothes hamper. He took extra time showering and shaving in hopes it would spark some inspiration regarding his report. But two coats of Zest couldn’t wash away his dilemma, and he was soon back to square one.
Striding into the kitchen for his third dose of caffeine, Adam stopped to pick up a small framed photo off the bookshelf he’d made out of an old guitar case hung on the wall. The wood-frame house in the photo was nestled on the edge of a creek, with windows looking out over the water. A couple of weathered Adirondack chairs perched on a gravel patio, just waiting for someone to sit down. Or to cast a telescopic fishing rod out over the creek.
He’d fallen in love with that house when he and Zelda were engaged, and he’d shown it to her with hopes she’d love it as much as he did. But she’d hated it. Too rustic, too many insects, too far away from town.
If he’d listened to that little cautionary voice in his head right then, he could have saved himself a great deal of grief later on. But he was besotted with Zelda at the time and caved on just about everything. Usually, his instincts were spot-on, but that was one instance they totally failed him.
Adam put the photo down and continued to the coffee pot, where he drained the last of it. He blew on the mug to cool the liquid, but the rising steam wafted back into his face. A ray of sun from the window bore through the curtain of steam from the mug, parting it like a caffeinated Red Sea.
Instinct. Such a simple word, that. But in his line of work, it could mean the line between life and death. Backup or no backup? Draw your gun or wait? Shoot or not shoot? Where Beverly Laborde was concerned, Adam’s instincts were somewhere between stay the course and abandon ship. What he needed was an investigative navigational chart to help him avoid the whirlpools that could suck him down.
He sat back down in front of the computer and did a search on Reggie Forsythe. He’d conducted some preliminary trolling, but he wanted more. He needed to know if Reggie was as much of a shady character as some believed. And as Beverly firmly believed.
As Adam perused the various news articles, everything seemed aboveboard, officially. The man’s connections cast a wide net into the political and business communities, with only a few known rotters among them. But a man couldn’t be judged on his acquaintances alone. Look at Adam—he associated with all kinds of people who were one circumstance away from being on the other side of prison bars, like Stork.
One small paragraph buried in a news item toward the back of a newspaper a couple of years ago caught Adam’s eye. It wasn’t so much the content, which tiptoed around the question of a possible unethical business practice of Forsythe’s, as the name Adam saw in the next-to-last line of the article. He opened his address book and scanned through the alphabet until he got to the Q’s, and dialed the lone number there, Creighton Querry.
After eight rings and no answer, Adam was ready to hang up, when a booming bass voice answered. Adam said, “Cray, long time, no Seagrams.”
There was a pause followed by a barking reply so loud Adam had to pull the phone away from his ear. “That you, Dutton? You must have stepped in a big pile of shit to be calling me after what happened a year ago.”
“You do bill yourself as a cleaner-upper private eye.”
“I came damned near close to going to jail on account of you. That was one big steaming dog pile, Dutton.”
“All a misunderstanding. I made it square, didn’t I?”
Just when Adam thought Querry’s rumble couldn’t go any deeper, it did. “I should hang up on you.”
“And yet, you don’t.”
Another pause, and then a grunt. “This better be good, Dutton.”
“Two words. Reginald Forsythe.”
“The one that was murdered?”
“Yes, and no. I’m more interested in the son at the moment.”
“What, did he kill his own father?”
“I don’t know. It’s not my case directly.”
“Ah, one of those.”
“Exactly.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What did you find out about that Gortran case you investigated? Your name made the papers.”
“I wish it hadn’t.”
“Should bring in more business.”
“The opposite. Business dried up after. I only recently started getting nibbles. I’ve been working as a bouncer at the Copper Club in Stowe.”
“Think Reggie Forsythe was behind the sudden drop-off?”
“I don’t think it, I know it, but I can’t prove it.”
“I’d like to hear what you found out on Forsythe. Might help the case I’m working.”
“Not over the phone. Same meeting place. I’ve got to be at the club tonight, but I could see you earlier.”
Adam glanced at his watch. “Can you make it in an hour?”
“Yeah, okay. If it’ll help nail his useless ass, I’m in.”
Adam hung up with Querry and considered what he’d said. Another case of Forsythe getting revenge on someone who’d crossed him? If so, he missed his calling as a mob boss. Adam focused on the computer screen and decided what he wanted to do about his report. He began typing, and this time he wasn’t going to delete any of it.
