The Wrong Man
Autore
Kelsey Roberts
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Chapter One
Haley Jenkins hopped out onto the porch, letting the thick wooden door slam behind her as she fought a valiant battle to pull the strap of her sandal over her heel. Her curse was muffled by the shoulder strap of her purse, which dangled precariously between her teeth.
The energy-zapping humidity that settled over her like a blanket didn’t help her mood, nor did the fact that she still hadn’t managed to get her shoe on properly. Heat floated from every surface, making her feel as if she was looking out at the world through a lens beneath dull, gray water.
“Thank you, Claire,” she grumbled as she pulled her cluttered key chain from the depths of her handbag as she reached her car.
The car’s interior was even more stifling and she could feel beads of perspiration begin to trickle between her shoulder blades.
Glancing in the rearview mirror she determined two things—it was safe to pull away from the curb and she was having a very bad hair day. “I’m moving north!”
Her car sputtered once before darting forward, leaving a trail of bluish smoke she was pretty sure was a bad car omen. The air conditioner spewed hot, musty-smelling air for the first few miles before finally offering some much needed relief from Charleston weather in mid-August She maneuvered her way through the early evening traffic, heading for the Rose Tattoo. The heat followed her.
Haley secretly resented being summoned out on a night like this. I should have called Claire and Susan and begged off, she thought to herself, but the wuss in her had triumphed, preventing her from doing it.
“Thank you, Mother,” she grumbled, knowing full well that her talent for loading herself with guilt was directly traceable to her early childhood training to be kind to others.
Not only had Claire directed Haley to appear at the Rose Tattoo at seven-fifteen sharp, her message also included a directive that she go completely out of her way to collect Barbara.
Despite all this, Haley’s mood began to improve now that the air-conditioning was working. By the time she turned on to the tree-lined cul-de-sac where Barbara lived, her smile was more felt than forced.
Pulling into a spot in front of Barbara’s condo, she honked the horn. The front door opened even before the sound had echoed and died. Barbara, dressed in her usual brightly colored, perfectly tailored suit, emerged from number 401. She was having a good hair day. Her long red hair was neatly braided and fastened into a bun at the nape of her neck. She looked every inch the efficient upwardly mobile advertising rep.
“We must be entering the first stages of Armageddon,” Barbara said, dabbing at the small droplets of perspiration above her lip. “Did Claire say what this dinner is all about?”
“I didn’t talk to her—she left a message.”
“How’d she sound?” Barbara’s tone lingered somewhere between cautious and callous. “I know today was the day.”
“Happy. No, excited, I think.” Haley steered her car back in the direction of the ozone-hidden haze of town.
“You know that can only mean one thing,” Barbara said.
Haley watched as her friend’s features folded into an expression of acute disgust.
“Cut her a break. She’s looking for something to make her feel useful and loved.”
“Then she should get a dog. You’d think she would have better things to concentrate on—like all that money.” The laughter they shared was tainted slightly, by deep-seated envy.
Claire’s inherited fortune had always been the barometer Barbara and Haley used to rank their successes. Of course, Claire had tons of money, but her wealth was tempered by a long history of disastrous personal relationships.
They arrived at the Rose Tattoo. It was one of the most beautifully restored Charleston Single Homes, even if the proprietor was a little left of center. Haley grinned when she thought of Rose Porter. She couldn’t imagine anyone but that cantankerous woman employing her longtime friend Susan.
Susan came rushing forward as soon as they had managed to push through the line of unhappy people waiting for tables.
“You’re on time!” Susan exclaimed. “I’ve got ten more minutes on my shift, but there’s a table reserved for us out on the porch.”
“The porch?” Barbara moaned. “It’s got to be a hundred degrees out there.”
Susan’s mouth puffed into a pout. “Rose wouldn’t let me reserve one of the inside tables and Claire was really insistent when she called this meeting.”
“Then where is she?” Haley asked.
“She’ll be here,” Susan promised with her usual forgiveness of the flaws of others.
Haley suspected that Susan’s easy acceptance of other people’s shortcomings was due to her awareness of her own eclectic leanings. Susan’s latest fixation had something to do with spiritual housecleanings and white witches. Hopefully that would be an improvement over pyramids, channeling, crystals and auras.
After five minutes of enjoying the air-conditioning, and with Claire nowhere to be found, Barbara and Haley went to their table and settled in with a bottle of moderately priced wine.
The time passed slowly and Haley’s stomach growled louder with each second.
“I’m giving Claire another ten minutes, then I order,” Barbara announced.
“She might be stuck in traffic,” Susan suggested as she joined them, poured herself some wine and swirled the contents of her glass.
“Knowing Claire, she’s probably stopping people on the street to give them the latest update on her quest for personal reproduction.”
“Barbara!” Haley tried to sound affronted through teeth clenched tight in an attempt to stifle the giggle she felt bubbling in her throat.
“Oh, c’mon, Haley.” Barbara waved her hand in a highly polished gesture that was probably an effective tool in those sales meetings she often discussed. “I love Claire, but I’m sick to death of hearing the Ovary Oratory.” Barbara clasped one hand over her heart and the other rested melodramatically flat against her forehead.
A chuckle slipped past the defensive line of Haley’s lips. “Okay, I’ll grant you that she’s been a little obsessive about the topic lately.”
“Obsessive!” Barbara parroted. She leaned forward, resting her elbows against the linen tablecloth. “I’m all for Claire having a baby. God knows it can’t be any worse than when she dropped out of school to marry Justin the Thief. I’m just sick of discussing it every time I see the woman. You watch.” Barbara’s pretty green eyes narrowed with accusation. “Twenty bucks says Claire will bring up the subject of reproduction within five minutes of her arrival.”
Haley smiled as she thought of Claire; the old familiar feelings of inferiority washed over her. Claire Benedict, her childhood companion, her trusted confidante, had this uncanny ability to make her feel like a troll. And she’s probably having an excellent hair day, Haley thought miserably. Claire always looked perfect and feminine, two areas that had always seemed to elude Haley, no matter how hard she tried.
Mark, the waiter who had spent the better part of a half hour topping off their wineglasses, scurried over and presented Susan with one of the handprinted menus before pouring some zinfandel into her glass.
“We’d better order,” Haley said.
Mark shot her a grateful look over his shoulder.
In her peripheral vision she watched Barbara’s normally complacent features strain. “I’ve had a long day. Whatever it is she wanted, she can tell me over dessert. I’m not waiting another second.”
When Susan’s features froze with obvious hurt at Barbara’s sarcastic tone, Haley looked heavenward and prayed for peace. Her hopes for a nice, quiet dinner were slowly being replaced by a real and fervent hope that her two good friends wouldn’t be reduced to a shouting match in the middle of the restaurant.
“Please, Barbara?” Susan pleaded. “Don’t start. Rose will have a fit if you cause a scene when Claire shows up. And you know she’ll get here, she just gets sidetracked sometimes. Besides, I’m sensing an awful lot of red in your aura, Barbara. You really should try to get that under control.”
“I’ll work on it,” Barbara said without even a hint of sincerity.
“Is there something wrong with consulting specialists?” Susan asked Barbara, using the inflection in her tone like a gauntlet.
“Of course there’s nothing wrong with it,” Haley insisted. She was uncomfortable. Then again, playing peacekeeper always made her feel like June Cleaver. “I’m sure Barbara doesn’t think so either.”
“There’s nothing wrong with consulting specialists, per se,” Barbara agreed. “I just think deciding to become a single parent with her track record is absurd. Justin was a criminal, and she’s told me nothing but horrifying stories about her latest guy.” Barbara turned to Haley and asked, “Have you talked to her about him? He sounds dangerous from what little I know.”
Haley nodded. “She’s finally agreed to get a restraining order. We’re supposed to get together later this week and I’m going to help her with the paperwork.”
“Good,” Susan breathed. “I saw what Destiny went through when she had that crazy man after her.”
Haley forced a lightness to her tone. “Claire has been pretty tight-lipped about it, but I think he’s finally done something that’s pushed her over the edge.”
“Do you know his name yet?” Barbara asked, then turning to Susan with a playful grin she added, “Wait, we don’t need to ask his name, can’t you tune him in on one of your channels? Like the Psycho Channel? Or the Stalker Channel?”
“Don’t make fun of me,” Susan answered. “It’s not channels, it is channeling.”
“Forgive me,” Barbara said. “My mistake.”
The air had grown somewhat thick just as Mark returned, pad and pen poised. “Are you ladies ready to order?”
“If you two are going to bicker, I’m going to ask to be moved to a table for one.”
Haley’s companions looked contrite and nodded, which she supposed meant everyone was going to stay and play nicely in the sandbox.
“I’m sorry, Susan,” Barbara said. “I guess it just bothers me to think you might be stepping onto yet another treadmill. You do seem to belong to the psychic-fixation-of-the-month club.” Barbara reached out and patted Susan’s hand. The gesture was just enough to allow Haley to relax the knotted muscles of her empty stomach.
Mark stood with an air of impatience, glowering at Susan. After he deposited a basket of rolls in the center of the table, they took turns ordering. Throwing regard for her cholesterol level out the window, Haley happily settled on a petit filet and ordered extra béarnaise, justifying her actions by telling herself that steak wasn’t something she would normally prepare at home. Then again, she considered anything that required more than three minutes on high in the microwave a major culinary undertaking.
“I wonder where she is?” Haley said as she glanced around the crowded restaurant. “Surely her appointment with that doctor couldn’t take this long.”
“Maybe she’s getting to know him personally,” Barbara joked. “If he’s cute and the timing is right, the two of them could just do it the old-fashioned way.”
“That’s gross,” Susan wailed. “He’s a doctor and she’s his patient They can’t do it. That would be unethical and I know Claire is taking this very seriously. She’s really checked this guy out and she’s committed to the motherhood thing.”
“Am I the only one here who doesn’t hear the tick of her biological clock?”
Haley smiled but didn’t answer. To be truthful, she wasn’t sure what her feelings were on the subject. Until Claire had announced that she was going to have a baby by artificial insemination, Haley had pretty much left that part of her on the back burner. Now, though, she was suddenly more aware of the fact that she was entering the danger zone. That time when “forty” looms on the horizon and expressions like “if you’re going to do it, you’d better get going” popped in and out of her head at the oddest moments.
“It’s probably a smart idea,” Barbara admitted. “I hear artificial insemination is a big industry these days.”
“How’s business?” Haley asked Barbara, changing the subject.
“Pretty good. I just signed a contract with Citizens for Peace,” she answered.
“Claire gives them a lot of money,” Susan said. “She hopes they’re successful in getting at least some of those dreadful handguns off the street.”
“I’m going to put together a half dozen thirtysecond spots.”
“That’s really great,” Haley said, reaching to uncover the basket of rolls. Taking one for herself, she passed them to Susan. “A real winner came across my desk this week.” Leaning closer to the center of the table, she continued, “A client of mine is suing the City for making him ride a horse.”
“Why is he suing the city?” Barbara asked.
“He’s a natural resources officer. The guy asked for a transfer to the mounted division, and now he claims his fear of horses has caused a back injury that prevents him from working.”
“Did he fall off the horse during training?” Susan asked.
Haley shook her head and felt a mischievous light narrow her eyes. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “My complainant says he’s so afraid of horses that he developed irritable bowel syndrome. That condition then caused him to tense his muscles, which in turn caused the back injury, which in turn has caused him great anguish of mind, and, well…you get the picture.”
“Wait a minute!” Barbara fought to keep her laughter, in check. “This guy is suing the city because sitting on a horse gives him the runs?”
“Exactly.”
They laughed loud and long enough to earn baleful stares from the adjoining tables. By the time Mark arrived with the food, Haley was busy wiping the remnants of mascara-stained tears from her cheeks. “I’m going to call Claire,” she said just as her food was placed in front of her. “It won’t take but a minute.”
It took less than a minute. “No answer at her house, not even the machine.”
“That’s weird,” Susan said.
“I tried her cell phone too, but she must have it turned off.” Although she spoke lightly, Haley found she really didn’t like the fact that Claire was this late and hadn’t called.
“I don’t envy you all your careers,” Susan said as she poked a chunk of chicken with her fork. “I’m glad I didn’t pursue graduate school. I like what I’m doing.”
“Like you could do anything else with a degree in philosophy,” Barbara observed dryly.
Considering the general mood of her dining companions, Haley was glad when they paid the check and left, although she was guiltily questioning her qualifications as a friend. They’d lingered over dessert, and never once tried to reach Claire again.
By the time she got back home, the outside air temperature had dropped into the more bearable eighties. Without flipping on any lights, she made her way through the maze of construction to the stairway leading to the second floor. She wondered if the original builder of the house had encountered as many construction problems the first time around as she had during the course of the renovations. This was the sixth month of restoration purgatory and the odds were fifty-fifty on what would run out first—her patience or her money.
“Money,” she acknowledged as she started up the stairs. By the seventh step, she was peeling clothes off her damp body. In the back of her mind she could hear her high school science teacher’s long-ago lecture on the inescapable rise of hot air. Her name was Mrs. Bagley, she recalled as she tossed her slip onto the chair next to the bed. Rolling on top of the covers, she reached for the remote.
“The miracle of cable,” she said with a sigh, flipping through the fifty-odd channels at her disposal before settling on an old black and white film playing on one of the higher numbers. Setting the automatic timer to turn the set off in an hour, she began to relax, until she noticed the flashing red light on her answering machine.
Pressing the play button, she strained to hear the. soft, almost inaudible sound of Claire’s voice.
She hit rewind and adjusted the volume. “Haley, you’ve got to help me. I’m—”
Her panic began where the message abruptly ended. Grabbing the phone, she dialed the emergency operator. She explained the situation and was politely but firmly told that her concerns would be assigned to a detective, who would get in touch with her.
“I don’t think you understand,” Haley argued. “Ms. Benedict missed dinner and this message sounds as if something terrible might have happened to her.”
“I don’t think you understand,” the bored voice answered. “We don’t send out patrol cars to investigate answering machine messages. Do you want me to pass this along to Missing Persons or not?”
“I want you to send someone over to her house to check on her,” Haley countered.
“It doesn’t work that way, ma’am.”
“Fine, I’ll do it myself then. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate your help. I’m an attorney, so if I find anything out of the ordinary, I’ll be sure to mention your name personally when I file suit against the city attorney.”
There was a brief pause before the operator relented and asked, “What’s the address?”
Haley gave the information as she pulled on a pair of jeans and stuffed her nightshirt into the waistband. She left the portable phone on the table and flew downstairs, grabbed her keys and ran out the door, chased by a whole litany of fears.
Claire owned a huge estate on the outskirts of town and Haley ignored most of the posted speed limit signs getting there. To her surprise, she found a dark blue sedan parked in front of the locked gate.
A man stepped from the car and stood bathed in the floodlights that guarded the ornate iron gates.
He looked in his late thirties, maybe, with thick, unruly dark hair that seemed too long to meet the regulations that went with the unmarked police car. Because of her recent hair-analysis phase, Haley noticed that before she caught the serious expression in his dark hazel eyes.
“Miss Jennings?” he asked.
As he said her name, Haley felt a kind of reaction she had never had before. Taking in his broad shoulders, casually arrogant posture and the angled—no, chiseled—perfection of his features, she found her palms moist. She didn’t offer her hand; she walked over and stood next to the keypad on the security panel. “I’m Haley Jenkins. Thanks for meeting me here. I’m really concerned about Claire since getting that message.”
In her peripheral vision, she watched as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it into the car. She noted the dark, horseshoe-shaped perspiration stains beneath the sleeves of his shirt. Good, this gorgeous man isn’t a dream. Fantasy men don’t sweat, she told herself. He isn’t completely perfect.
“I’m Detective Ross.” Flipping his wallet out of the breast pocket of his shirt, he showed her an official-looking gold shield.
“Detective,” she said politely as she entered the code that opened the gates.
“What can I do for you?”
“Just come with me,” she answered, not really sure what she wanted him to do now that she was there. “Maybe she’s fallen or something and needs help.”
“Are you a close friend of Ms. Benedict?” he asked as he directed a flashlight beam against the driveway in front of them.
“Close enough to know the alarm codes and have my own set of keys,” she answered, immediately sorry that had come out sounding so flippant. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she added as she sensed him following her up the horseshoe-shaped pavement. “I had a hard time convincing the dispatcher that this was important.”
The detective shifted his weight as he stood next to her while she fumbled with the keys, then disabled the alarm.
“Claire?” she called out into the total blackness of the house.
It was then that she felt the warmth of his hand as he gripped her upper arm in order to move ahead of her. It made perfect sense that he should lead the way. He was bigger, had the flashlight, and when she heard him unsnap the holster of his gun, she actually shivered.
“You might want to wait here,” he said in a tone that was soft, but definitely a command.
“I’d rather come with you,” Haley said.
He turned once, meeting her eyes. She read caution and something that bordered on sympathy as he said, “That probably isn’t a good idea.”
“Why?” she asked as she half shoved him to peer inside.
There on the foyer, just inside the circle from his light, she saw it. Blood.
