Decoding the Truth
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Julie Miller
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15,2K
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14
Chapter One
“I found it.”
Chelsea whispered the words, even though she wanted to shout them from the Sin City Bar’s rooftop. Eleven months of searching every database she could legally gain access to, trolling through sites that weren’t exactly in her purview as the resident computer guru of the Kansas City Police Department Crime Lab, running her own programs to keep the search going, even when she wasn’t at a computer screen. Eleven months of following cyber trails to dead ends, hacking her way past them and winding up with leads to other cases she wasn’t even working on. Eleven months trying to match a name, a face, a DNA profile—anything concrete. Eleven months!
She wasn’t hallucinating. Even though the dim light of the bar meant she had to squint through her glasses to see her laptop, there was no mistake. Her screen was flashing that she’d found a match.
Ignoring the clink of glassware from the small kitchen behind the bar where she’d set up her laptop and Wi-Fi hot spot, she scrolled through the data again. Compared it to the information on the split screen beside it, even though she’d memorized most of the code after so many months of searching. She read the intel that jumped out at her as a solid match again.
She pushed her glasses—crystal-embedded cat-eye frames tonight—onto the bridge of her nose and confirmed it one more time.
“I found it.”
Adrenaline surged up from her toes to the roots of her long brown hair and she reached into the pocket of her apron for her cell phone. She pulled up the familiar number and pushed Call.
“Hey, honey!” The scantily clad woman in the back booth scrambled off the lap of her boyfriend for the night and waved her over. She was probably freezing her giblets off in that getup on this cold, damp November night. “Bring us another round. My man’s got a thirst.” The woman’s loud laughter ended in a squeal as the man hanging back in the shadows with her pinched something to silence her. The noise from the other patrons in the bar, namely the motorcycle club members taking up two tables near the dartboards, soon drowned out the conciliatory cooing between the couple.
Just another night at Sin City.
Tucking her phone between her shoulder and ear, Chelsea quickly poured a rum and cola, and pulled a can of lemon-lime soda from the mini-fridge. She plopped them onto a tray and carried them to the table while the phone rang. She ignored the whistles and catcalls from the bikers as she hurried past. By the time she reached the back table, the couple seemed to be scrambling to zip something into the woman’s big purse and move it out of the way so that the two could sit side by side on the bench seat. If Chelsea hadn’t already carded the young man, she might question whether he was underage. But he was legal. Probably more legal than his older, so-called date, who Chelsea was pretty sure would sit on any man’s lap here—for the right price and the promise of a warm place to stay the night.
Chelsea nearly dropped the phone as the call connected, catching it in an awkward juggle of tray and drinks before slapping her cell back up to her ear.
“Buckner here.” The man’s voice was clipped to let the caller know he wasn’t someone to be trifled with, laced with caution...and husky from sleep.
“Buck? It’s Chelsea. I...” Husky from sleep... Chelsea’s bubble of excitement deflated, and embarrassment swept in. “I woke you up.” She glanced at her watch and cringed. “It’s after midnight. I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”
Buck Buckner’s voice, appropriately deep for the size of his broad barrel chest, cleared his throat. “That’s okay. What man doesn’t like a pretty woman calling him in the middle of the night?” he rumbled. “I should have checked the number before I snapped at you.”
Pretty woman? With a hint of huskiness added to the deep pitch, his apology sounded unexpectedly sexy.
Sexy?
Chelsea jerked her head up to see if anyone had spotted her curious, stunned reaction. She met the irritated gaze of the young man in the corner. At least, she assumed he was irritated. His hoodie was pulled several inches past his face, casting his expression in shadows. “You gonna serve those drinks anytime tonight, four-eyes?” he prodded. Yep. Definitely irritated.
“Sure.” Chelsea set the drinks on the table, and he tossed a twenty onto her tray, telling her to keep the change. Ignoring the young man’s eagerness to dismiss her, she spun away to hurry back to her laptop at the bar.
“Chels?” Buck’s tone sounded less drowsy. But still sexy. Rumbly and deep and definitely sexy. “Did I hear someone else? You working late?”
Wow. Since when did she associate sexy with Buck? And why did her fertile brain automatically take a turn into fantasyland and imagine exchanging midnight calls with Buck for an entirely different reason beyond the research she’d been doing for him this past year, as a favor to a friend with whom she worked at the crime lab?
She scooted past the drunk on the corner barstool and set her tray behind the bar. Technically, she was working, but not in the way or place he thought. “I’m alone now. I can talk.”
“You called me?”
Buck was at least a decade older than her thirty-two years, probably more, since she knew he had a son who would be in his early twenties by now. It was hard to think of anyone she had less in common with than the brusque former cop. He commanded authority. He’d worn an army uniform, a police uniform, and now favored the uniform of a suit and tie. He ran his own business and was a well-respected man, both at KCPD and the crime lab, and in the Kansas City community. Meanwhile, she commanded computers and ran herself ragged trying to please others and stay busy enough so the lonesome mess that was her personal life didn’t grab hold of her and take her down the same rabbit hole of dysfunction that had claimed her parents.
And still...
“Chels? You need to talk to me.”
When he said her name like that, like it was some sort of indulgent pet name, Chelsea felt as if warm, melty chocolate was drizzling over her skin in the most sensual of ways.
She blinked rapidly, dispelling the sensation. She admired the man. Liked him as a friend. Heck, she liked him as more than a friend, but had never crossed that line because she didn’t want to scare him off and risk losing him from her life. But she was pulverizing that line tonight. What was wrong with her? Were her hormones out of whack? Had her excitement over finally finding an answer for him turned her brain to mush?
She knew Buck was a divorced man and was technically available. Yes, he had taken her to breakfast many times over the past eleven months—business meetings and symbolic repayment for the time she was giving him. She’d bet she’d shared as many meals with Buck as she ate at home with her pets. He always insisted on paying and holding doors open for her. Even though she couldn’t remember hearing him laugh anything more than a chuckle, his dry sense of humor could make her laugh out loud. He drove a nice truck, and had powerful shoulders, a striking dusting of silver in his short, dark hair and eyes that were a warm, golden brown.
And yeah, he had that deep, sexy voice that made her forget why she’d called him.
But while she might be totally aware of all things Buck, they weren’t dating. They weren’t a couple. She was an asset to him. A resource who could work her magic and give him access to a wide web of data that his limited computer skills could not. She’d volunteered for the job of helping him track down his missing son because one, she loved her technology and research and the challenge of solving an allegedly unsolvable mystery, and two, Buck had the saddest eyes she’d ever seen on a man. Eyes that held years of pain and guilt and anger. She wanted those eyes to smile. She wanted the careworn lines etched beside them to relax. If she could help him find the answers he needed, then he’d smile for her. And that would make her happy.
Sexy? Drizzling? Sad eyes? Where were these thoughts coming from tonight? Chelsea pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and finger, then nudged her glasses back into place.
She could fantasize all she wanted, but a relationship with Buck would never exist anywhere outside her imagination. Chelsea doubted Buck saw her skinny frame, myopic eyes and geeky ways as any sort of a turn-on. “It’s not okay that I called so late. You work in the morning. Since I know you’re a workaholic, you probably had a long day today. I doubt you ate three square meals on your own, maybe not even one. I’m sure you’ve had too much coffee. You need to take care of yourself and get your rest.”
He snickered, but it didn’t sound like he was smiling. “Well, that makes it sound like I’m halfway over the hill and need to take extra vitamins and hire a caretaker.”
“I didn’t mean that,” she quickly apologized. “You’re healthy and strong and you’ve got that sexy voice.”
“I’ve got what?”
“Um...” Thank goodness the bar was dark, and the patrons were too absorbed in their own business to notice the heat flaming her cheeks. Yes, she’d said that out loud. Once again, a class in Social Skills 101 would have gone a long way to negate the effects of her damaged childhood and an adulthood spent mostly alone with her computers and pets. She exhaled an embarrassed breath. “My point is...you are not over the hill by any stretch of the imagination. You’re a mature hottie. A silver fox.”
He groaned.
Oh, right. She should have left out the mature part. Buck was 100 percent masculine, built like a Mack truck and aged like a fine wine. All that was hot. But telling a man he was hot when that wasn’t the kind of relationship they shared would make things awkward between them. Not like she hadn’t already made this conversation super awkward.
“Stop thinking. Start talking,” Buck ordered.
Right. They’d worked together on this project long enough that he knew her weirdness like that. “It is rude of me to call so late.”
“I’m always happy to hear from you.”
“At midnight?” she scoffed. “You don’t have to be nice to me.”
“You don’t want me to be nice to you?”
“Well, of course, I do. I wish everyone would be nice. But you know, when I insult you, whether it’s intentional or not, I can still hurt your feelings or bruise your ego. You have the right to get pissed off at me. I wouldn’t blame you if—”
“Chelsea. Take a breath.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have called.”
“Do you think you could go five minutes without apologizing to me?” This time he did snap, and she knew she’d reached the end of his patience with her.
“Sorry. I do that when—”
“Chels.”
“I’m s...” Do not say sorry again! He must already think she was a babbling idiot. But when she got excited or nervous, her thoughts went haywire, cataloging every tidbit of information and nuance of her emotional response, and her mouth followed right along with those thoughts spinning through her brain. Add in this weird crush she had on him, and she’d be hard-pressed to convince anyone she had a genius-level IQ. She’d earned her odd bug, eccentric and absent-minded professor descriptors quite honestly. She took a deep breath, as he’d advised, and got her thoughts ahead of her emotional impulses. “How about I call you in the morning after you’ve had your coffee.”
“I’m wide-awake now.” She heard a door opening in the background, and some water running. Splashing water on his face? Filling a glass to drink? She really had screwed this up and ruined his night. “Tell me why you called. Does this have anything to do with our little side project?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I found him. I found your son.” There was a long silence with no reply. The water ran unheeded in the background. Maybe she was wrong to get his hopes up. It wasn’t every father whose son vanished from the face of the earth when he went off to college. It wasn’t every father who quit his job as a Kansas City cop and started his own private investigation and security agency so he’d have more time to devote to searching for his missing son. Was Buck still there? Had he fainted? “I mean, I don’t actually know where Bobby is. But I found his DNA. It’s in a crime scene report of a John Doe murder investigation. Right here in Kansas City.”
The water shut off abruptly. “Murder?”
Chelsea gestured as if Buck could see her placating him. “He’s not the victim. I triple-checked before I called you.”
“Thank God.” She heard him exhale a sound of utter pain. “What else can you tell me?” he asked in a steely, no-nonsense voice.
“Hey, Ladybug.” Vince Goring shuffled behind the bar with a tub full of dirty mugs and plopped them down beside her on the edge of the sink. The bar’s owner, chief bartender and lifelong friend of Chelsea’s peered at her from beneath his bushy brows and straightened with a wheezy breath. “Get another round for tables six and seven. Six drafts, one lite and a whiskey, neat.”
“I’m on it, Vinnie.” Chelsea patted the old man’s grizzled cheek and grabbed hold of the heavy tub, indicating she’d take care of cleaning the glasses for him. Taking care of the old man who’d befriended her ages ago was a lot easier than dealing with the downward spiral of her conversation with Buck. She turned her attention back to the phone. “Hey, Buck. Sorry, I—sorry about apologizing—damn, I need to quit talking. Could we meet for breakfast tomorrow? After you’ve slept and I can think straight. I will fill you in on everything—what little there is—then.”
She sensed Buck was on the move. Pacing? “I’ve been waiting four years for this. Tell me—”
“Yo, baby.” Another interruption. Gordy Bismarck, one of the rowdies who’d roared in on a fleet of motorcycles, stomped snow and slush across the entryway rug and taken up residence at two of the high-top tables near the dartboards, shoved aside a stool in front of her and leaned over the bar. Chelsea met the rheumy eyes of the man wearing a denim jacket, sporting a patch emblazoned with the Missouri Twisters MC logo on the chest. A bandanna covered the top of his balding pate. He shoved her laptop aside. “You doin’ your homework, baby girl? Checking out one of those date-a-hunk websites? Find my picture there?”
“Don’t touch that!” When he started to turn the computer screen toward him, she smacked his hand, closed the screen, and hugged the laptop to her chest. In her scramble to keep the world on her computer hidden from prying eyes, she dropped her phone. Fortunately, it landed in the tub of glasses, and not the sink full of water beside it. She quickly scooped it up, wiped the dribble of warm beer off on her apron and hugged that to her chest, too. Even if she hadn’t accidentally disconnected the call, Buck was probably adding klutz or scatterbrain to his opinion of her now. “Go back to your table.”
Looking less than pleased that she’d struck him and rebuffed his drunken advances, the biker slunk away from the bar and jabbed a meaty finger at her. “Those mugs ain’t gonna fill themselves. And you bring ’em over there yourself, baby girl. I’m tired of lookin’ at the old man’s ass.”
“I’m not interested in whatever you’re offering. Now shut your trap and go back to your game. I’ll get your drinks and bring them when I’m ready.”
“You need a lesson in manners.”
“You think you can teach me some?”
Gordy grabbed the crotch of his jeans and blew a kiss at her. “I can teach you a lot, baby girl.”
Chelsea frowned with disgust. “Has that line ever worked for you? Go. Away.”
“Bring the damn drinks.” Gordy sneered at her defiance and stormed back to his buddies at the dartboard. The ensuing mix of catcalls and cheers was loud enough to carry over the phone.
She looked at her phone to see that the call was still active, heard Buck calling her name, and with an embarrassed sigh, put it back to her ear. She cringed when he shouted her name. “I really need to get back to work.”
“Who are you talking to like that? Are you hurt? Is someone threatening you?” The sexy was definitely gone from his tone now. Maybe she’d only imagined it earlier because that was what she’d wanted to hear.
“I’m fine.” She set the laptop back on top of the bar. “I dropped my phone,” she explained.
“Because someone’s harassing you. Is it Hunt?”
Dennis Hunt? Her former supervisor at the Kansas City Crime Lab? Hunt was the man she was testifying against in a sexual harassment and assault case. Buck had been there the day she’d broken down and confessed everything that had happened between her and Dennis. Dennis, her former supervisor, had a proclivity for sexual harassment. But something about her must have screamed victim because she’d become his target for more than crude words and unwanted touches. Luckily, her new supervisor and best friend, Lexi Callahan, had risked her own safety to get Dennis arrested. The moment he’d been released on bond, Chelsea and Lexi had both filed restraining orders against him to keep the lowlife away from them until his trial in two weeks.
“Chelsea?” Buck’s voice was harsh as the former cop in him came out. “Is Hunt there? Do I need to call the police?”
Right. Because she was alone in the world, a walking magnet for trouble, and she couldn’t take care of herself. Lexi had a hot cop fiancé and his K-9 partner to protect her from anything Dennis might try, but Chelsea had to be taken care of.
One of the reasons she’d been eager to help Buck with his search for his missing son was because he’d needed her. Her. Computer research, database knowledge, codes, programming and even hacking skills were where she could shine. She wasn’t the weak link or the victim when she was working on her computer. She kicked ass and earned respect, not pity. She was the one who could help others when it came to her techno-geek skill set.
But fending off rude customers in the bar? Standing up to the man who’d assaulted her and triggered post-traumatic stress episodes? No one, not even Buck, apparently, thought she could handle herself. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed by Buck’s lack of faith in her survival abilities or embarrassed to realize how much his opinion mattered to her. “Dennis isn’t here. I’m not at the crime lab.”
She heard movement in the background of the call. Oh, damn. He was truly wide-awake now, unnecessarily worried, and it was her fault. “Where the hell are you at this hour? Who’s with you?”
“I’m at my other job. I moonlight sometimes—helping out an old friend—”
“Chelsea O’Brien!” Vinnie snapped his fingers and pointed at the scowling group of men who wanted more alcohol to fuel their evening. “Tonight, Ladybug. I don’t want Gordy and his crew to be unhappy. You know they don’t handle unhappy very well.”
Right. This bunch had gotten into a big fight in the parking lot over a year ago. After several of them served time for it, they’d come back to their favorite haunt. “Buck, I have to go.”
“Where are you?” He insisted on an answer.
“Sin City Bar. It’s downtown. Not far from—”
“I know where it is. What the hell are you doing there? Are you okay?”
“Barkeep! Move your ass, baby girl.” There was no flirting in Gordy’s tone now. He didn’t seem to appreciate that she’d shot him down in front of his friends. And while Chelsea could deal with anger better than unwanted lust, the demands coming at her from so many different directions flustered her.
“Are you able to talk without putting yourself in danger?” Buck demanded. “Answer yes or no. Are you okay?”
Chelsea shoved the tub out of the way and set a clean tray on the bar. “Well, I’m a little stressed out with everyone yelling at me—”
“Chelsea!” His deep breath was audible, and his volume dropped back closer to that deep-pitched huskiness. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. Are you safe?”
Sweetheart? Why did that single word—probably a slip of the tongue that had no more meaning than Gordy Bismarck’s baby girl—make her heart squeeze inside her chest? Oh, how she wished she’d had better role models growing up, a better understanding of normal people, so she could better understand the meaning behind why they said and did the things they did. “I have to go. Are we on for breakfast tomorrow or not?”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
