Framed
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Karen Leabo
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Chapter 1
“What am I going to do with all this junk?” Jess Robinson said on a moan as she sifted through a drawer full of expensive men’s socks, some of them never worn. She had already inventoried a drawer full of designer underwear, a closet full of Calvin Klein jeans, shelves full of law books that had hardly been cracked, a cabinet full of men’s toiletries.
“I say you pitch all this stuff,” said her sister, Lynn, who at the ripe age of twenty, and with half of a university education, knew everything there was to know about the world and human nature. “Better yet, burn it. We could have a cleansing ritual. Maybe even a party.”
“No, this stuff is too nice to destroy. Think a women’s shelter could use it?”
“What is a women’s shelter going to do with men’s clothes? C’mon, Jess, just box it up and call the Salvation Army. I’m ready to move in.”
“But what if he decides he wants it back?”
“Tough toenails. He told you to do whatever you wanted with his stuff. If it turns out he made a bad decision, that’s his problem, not yours.”
Jess sank onto the king-size bed. “I just don’t understand why he would leave here with only the clothes on his back. Lord knows his things were a lot more important than his education or his relationships. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to make sense. You know what your basic character flaw is, Jess?”
“No, but I’m dying to find out,” Jess said dryly.
“You take on everyone’s problems as your own. I learned about people like you in psychology class. You’re called enablers. You enable people to be helpless and dependent because you encourage them to drop all their problems in your lap.”
This was just what Jess needed, to be psychoanalyzed by her baby sister. Of course, Lynn wasn’t completely wrong. Jess did tend to take on the world’s problems, and she’d done so ever since she was a kid. That was why she’d agreed to let Lynn live with her while she finished her degree at University of Missouri at Kansas City.
“Do you have boxes?” Lynn asked.
“In the basement. Does this mean you’re going to help?”
Lynn wrinkled her nose. “I’ll pack up his jeans and stuff, but I’m not touching his underwear. Honestly, Jess, how could you stand that guy? He’s such a dweeb.”
Lately, Jess had often wondered that herself. At one time a law student with a bright future, Terry had seemed perfect for her. He’d harbored grand dreams, and she’d been eager for him to fulfill those dreams as quickly as possible. She hadn’t even questioned it when he’d asked to move into her midtown duplex with her. He would save rent, he could quit his job and concentrate on school, thus becoming a lawyer that much sooner.
Hell, she’d been crazy in love, maybe for the first time. But something had gone wrong. He never seemed to graduate. He claimed to spend a lot of time studying in the library, but Jess could sometimes smell beer and cigarettes on him when he came home. When her suspicions had become overwhelming, she’d begun investigating.
Terry was not enrolled at the UMKC law school. He hadn’t been for at least two years.
At that point Jess had recognized that Terry was seriously flawed. He was just one of those people, she’d decided, who would never take responsibility for his own life. He blamed everyone but himself for his lack of success.
She’d politely asked him to move out. Caught, chagrined, he’d said he would be gone by the end of the month.
But that month had turned to two and then three. It became obvious that Terry wasn’t even trying to find alternative living arrangements. He didn’t pretend to look for work or enroll in school. He watched soap operas, drank beer and raided the refrigerator.
She’d put up with it far too long.
The doorbell interrupted her self-castigation, and her stomach tightened. Was he back? Did he want his things? She didn’t want to see him again. The past few days she’d prayed he would stay out of her life forever. He needed psychological intervention.
He scared her a little. She didn’t believe he was completely nuts, but he wasn’t entirely rational, either. She wasn’t quite sure where he would draw the line.
“Coming,” she called as she trotted down the stairs to the door. But it wasn’t Terry standing on her front porch. It was a man she didn’t know, with black hair and midnight blue eyes and the squarest, most determined jaw she’d ever seen. Although it was only midaftemoon, his face was shadowed with new beard.
“Ms. Robinson?”
“Yes?” Her mouth was suddenly dry. It wasn’t that the man was movie-star handsome. His features were too sharp, too startling, for that. But he definitely had presence.
He studied her for a few heartbeats, giving her a casual but unmistakable once-over. “I’m Detective Kyle Branson with the Kansas City Police Department. May I come in?”
“Sure.” Just let a complete stranger waltz into your living room, she scolded herself. “Wait a minute. Um, can I see a badge or something?”
He dutifully pulled his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open, revealing a policeman’s shield and a photo ID. Jess studied them briefly. Looked good to her, but then what did she know? With a mental shrug, she opened the door wider to allow the detective inside.
“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Oh, no, someone’s died, I know it. If they have, tell me now. I can take it.”
“I hope no one’s died,” the detective said. Rather than reassuring, his words seemed ominous.
Jess perched on the edge of her sofa, leaving available the recliner she’d bought for Terry’s bad back. Instead the cop sat next to her, a proper distance away but still close enough to be intimidating. She felt an illogical need to put more distance between them so she couldn’t be snared and held by his potent aura of power and masculinity. She resisted the urge to scoot farther away, instead folding her hands in her lap.
“Do you know a Terry Rodin?” he asked.
“Terry? Yes, I do. Has something happened?” Although Jess was positive she had no feelings left for Terry, she felt uneasy at the idea of any harm befalling him. She’d kicked him out, after all, when he had no job and no place to live. What if he’d become suicidal or something?
“That’s what I’d like to know. He’s missing. This is his last known address.”
“He moved out,” Jess said immediately. “He said he was going to stay with his friend Kevin.” She started to rise. “I’ve got his address and phone number if you—”
“We’ve talked with Kevin,” the detective said, halting her with his searing blue gaze. “He’s the one who alerted us. He said that two nights ago Terry was supposed to move in with him, and he never showed up.”
“That’s...that’s weird.”
“You were here when he left?”
“Yes. He took a taxi.”
Branson produced a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, opened it and propped it on one knee to make notes. “Did he often take taxis?”
“Well, no. He usually took my car, or I drove him, or one of his friends drove him.”
“But he took a taxi this time.”
“Yes. I offered to drive him over to Kevin’s, but he said he didn’t...well, he didn’t want anything from me. We’d previously been sort of involved, but I’d asked him to move out.”
“Sort of involved?” A trace of humor lifted the corners of the detective’s mouth. Once again she sensed him appraising her. Did he find her lacking? For some reason, she didn’t think so. Branson behaved in a perfectly professional manner, but she couldn’t miss the flicker of interest in his eyes.
Jess could feel heat rising in her face. “Very involved, but the relationship disintegrated months ago.”
“And he only just now got around to moving out?”
Jess folded her arms. “I couldn’t just kick him out into the street. He had nowhere to go, no money of his own. I gave him a few months to pull things together, but he never did. So finally I lowered the boom.” And it had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done. Even though she’d come to truly dislike the man, she’d also felt sorry for him. He was majorly dysfunctional.
“Hey, Jess,” Lynn called from upstairs, “can I keep Terry’s CD player?”
Detective Branson’s left eyebrow lifted by a fraction of an inch.
“He left his stuff here,” Jess said with a shrug. “I assumed he would come back for it, but he hasn’t.”
“Obviously.”
Jess wasn’t sure she liked the look Branson gave her now, as if he was sizing her up for something.
“Jess, did you hear me?” Lynn yelled.
“Not now, Lynn,” Jess called back impatiently.
“It’s funny that Kevin didn’t call here looking for Terry,” Jess said, thinking aloud. “Then again, I wasn’t Kevin’s favorite person. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to me.”
“He says he tried to call you several times, but you never answered.”
“He did? That’s odd. Why didn’t he leave a message?”
“Apparently your machine wasn’t on.”
“Well, of course it was on. I never leave without turning it on.”
“Never?”
“Well, hardly ever.” She didn’t push the matter. Perhaps Kevin had tried to call, and she had stepped outside or something without turning on the answering machine. He must not have tried very hard.
“Tell me, Ms. Robinson, where do you think Terry might be?”
“I have absolutely no idea. He has lots of friends and he might have crashed with one of them. Maybe he forgot he was supposed to stay with Kevin. You can never tell with Terry.”
“He’s unpredictable?”
“Predictably unpredictable. He had a unique way of looking at life, like everyone and everything owed him something, that it was his divine right to be happy, that his needs were more important than anyone else’s—” Abruptly Jess cut herself off. Good heavens, where had all that animosity come from?
“Please go on,” Branson said with blatant interest.
“I’m sorry. I guess I still have some residual anger to deal with. I started out trying to explain something, which is that only one thing matters to Terry, and that’s Terry. If he suddenly decided to bunk with someone else, he would probably arrive at their house unannounced and never bother to tell Kevin he’d changed his plans. That’s how Terry operates.”
“And you were involved with him?” Branson asked, incredulous. He spoke again before she could answer. “I’m sorry, that was unprofessional and uncalled for.”
She answered the impertinent question, anyway. “Terry’s also an excellent con artist. I confess he had me fooled for quite a while. Oh, and he loves practical jokes to an unhealthy point. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d disappeared on purpose, just so I would worry.”
“And are you worried?”
“No,” she said too quickly. “I refuse to be worried.” When Branson continued to stare at her, causing a tremor of awareness along her spine, she added, “Well, maybe a little worried. It’s strange that he didn’t take his prized possessions.”
“Such as?”
“His CD player,” Jess said, nodding toward the stairs. “His clothes. The only way I can see that he would abandon those things is if someone else is providing them. And I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that’s exactly what happened.”
“You mean you think he found him a sugar mama?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Do you mind if I take a look around?” Branson asked.
“Sure, no problem. I might even be able to scare up Terry’s address book, if that would help.”
“That might help a lot.” Branson rose and allowed her to lead him upstairs. Silly as it was, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was looking at her rear end as she walked ahead of him.
She stepped aside and indicated that he should enter Terry’s room ahead of her. She followed him in, and there was Lynn, sitting on the floor, sorting through Terry’s CDs.
“No, Lynn, you cannot keep anything of Terry’s, including his CD player. We’re going to box it all up and store it in the basement. Sooner or later, he’ll be back. Count on it.”
Lynn made a face—until she laid eyes on Detective Branson. Then she scrambled up off the floor and smiled like a beauty queen as she glided across the room. “Oh, hi. Didn’t know we had company.”
“Lynn, this is Detective Branson. Detective Branson, this is my sister, Lynn.”
Lynn held out her hand as if she expected him to kiss it. “Charmed.”
Oh, brother, Jess thought. Lynn had only recently overcome her teenager gawkiness, and she was fond of demonstrating her feminine charms to any male within range, just to see how they worked.
Fortunately, Branson seemed to be immune. He smiled politely and murmured, “Nice to meet you.” Then he turned to Jess. His polite interest vanished, replaced by a more-than-healthy curiosity. “Did you share the room with him?”
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. How dared he, and right in front of her little sister! What business was it of his whether she and Terry slept—
He cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to embarrass you, Ms. Robinson. But questions about a missing person’s background and lifestyle are standard procedure.”
She reconsidered the harsh words she’d been about to speak. “No, I didn’t share the room with him, at least not during the last few months. I moved into the guest room when we split up.”
“Why didn’t you make him move into the guest room?” Lynn asked. “It’s your house.”
Jess could tell by the expression on Branson’s face that he, too, was speculating about the answer to that question.
“Because I’m a doormat, okay?” she replied. “Might as well get it out in the open. I was a gullible idiot to get involved with him in the first place, and I was too weak to get rid of him once I was on to him.” She was mortified to hear her voice choked with tears.
She expected Lynn and the detective to agree with her, but they were both silent for several moments. Finally Branson said, “Lynn, would you mind leaving your sister and me alone for a few minutes?”
“Sure,” Lynn said. She abandoned the pile of CDs and slunk out of the room.
“Sit down,” he said to Jess, indicating a straight-back chair.
“Why?” she asked suspiciously. She felt like a kid about to be lectured by the principal.
“Because I want to talk to you.”
“You can talk to me while I’m standing up.” She knew she was being unreasonably defensive, but she felt so suddenly vulnerable and inferior and downright silly.
“If you’re comfortable that way.” He sat down on the bed himself, looking perfectly at ease. “Look, there’s no reason for you to be embarrassed. I know Terry’s type. There are thousands like him out there—men and women who could charm the skin off a snake. Lots of people are taken in.”
“But I shouldn’t have been,” she argued. “I’m smarter than that. I’m Phi Beta Kappa, for God’s sake. How could I be so stupid?”
“Hormones are enough to make anyone stupid, myself included.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Everyone makes mistakes. You probably won’t do it again.”
“Damn straight I won’t.”
“Good. Meanwhile, I need to learn whatever I can about Terry Rodin so I can find the guy.”
“And give him a swift kick when you find him, I hope,” Jess said, again hearing the surprising bitterness emerging in her voice.
“I’d like to. But kicking private citizens is...you know, against the rules. I could yell at him for you. Would that help?”
She knew he was trying to lighten the mood and put her at ease. To her dismay, it was working. “I don’t think yelling would work. No, brutality is the only answer, I’m afraid.” She smiled despite herself, then sat at the foot of the bed. It suddenly struck her that perhaps they shouldn’t be sharing the bed, even sitting up, fully clothed and several feet apart. To suddenly shift her position now would have drawn attention to the fact, so she stayed put.
The same thought might have occurred to Branson, though she wasn’t sure. He did, however, immediately sit up straighter, put both feet on the floor and retrieve his notebook from his pocket.
“What do you need to know?” she asked. “I’ll tell you all I can. I’ll confess that I’ve occasionally wished violence on him, but deep down I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. He’s...disturbed.”
“Distraught because of the breakup between you two?” Branson asked, his dark blue eyes snapping with renewed interest.
“No, I wouldn’t say that. He was angry at me for kicking him out, and he definitely laid a guilt trip on me, trying to get me to feel sorry for him, but he wasn’t distraught.”
“So you don’t think he was suicidal?”
She hesitated before answering. “It’s occurred to me,” she finally said. “But I’d say he’s more the type to threaten suicide rather than actually carry it out.”
Branson scribbled furiously for a few moments, then looked up, skewering her with those startling eyes. “Any other theories?”
She gave the question serious thought, then shrugged. “I really can’t imagine where he’s gone. He claims to have no family, but I have reason to doubt everything he’s told me, so who knows?” She slipped off the bed and went to Terry’s seldom-used desk. “He has a Rolodex here. You’re welcome to take it. There’s not much in it, just a handful of friends and acquaintances, his tailor, his hair stylist—”
“Hair stylist?”
“His appearance is very important to him. I suppose you could classify him as vain.”
“And did he have reason to be?”
“He’s extremely good-looking,” Jess answered without hesitation. That, at least, was one indisputable fact about Terry Rodin. She’d never met a single woman who thought he was less than movie-star material. At one time Jess had taken a certain feminine pride in partnering with such a handsome man. Now it wouldn’t matter so much to her. Looks contributed very little to a relationship.
Branson frowned slightly as he scribbled in his notebook. “I’ll take the Rolodex,” he said, his voice gruff. “Can you tell me about his favorite hangouts? Restaurants or bars he frequented? Did he go to church?”
She stifled a laugh. “No church. And by his account he spent an ungodly amount of time at the UMKC Law Library, although I found out later he probably hasn’t been there in years. There is one restaurant he’s particularly fond of, called Papagallo’s.”
“Oh, yes, I’m familiar with it. Mediterranean food?”
She nodded. “He might go there. He claimed he had to eat there at least once a week or go into withdrawal.”
“And I suppose you indulged him?”
Now she was not only embarrassed, she was getting downright irritated. She folded her arms and looked Branson straight in those damnably blue eyes of his before she answered. “I gave him my credit card and let him take his friends,” she said. “I think we’ve established the fact that I was stupid, okay? Do we have to keep hammering on it?”
At least Branson had the good grace to appear slightly embarrassed himself this time. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I’m not doing it on purpose. But you’re an attractive woman, and you certainly don’t seem slow. I find it difficult to believe you could be taken in, even a little bit.”
He seemed sincere. Jess wasn’t sure if she should have been flattered by his assessment or insulted. “Like I said, Terry was good,” she murmured.
“What do you do for a living, anyway?”
“Freelance court transcriber.”
“It’s hard for me to envision anyone getting the better of you.” This time his admiration was a little more obvious, a little harder to ignore. Surely he wouldn’t be coming on to her, would he?
“Me too,” she said, her voice failing. She’d been wrong before. Kicking Terry out hadn’t been the hardest thing in the world; facing up to how stupid she’d been was definitely worse. But Branson was forcing her to do just that—out loud. “They say love is blind.”
“That it is.” He gazed off at a far wall, unseeing, and she wondered if he’d ever loved unwisely. Then she decided that was impossible. He was too controlled, too selfassured, for that. It seemed more likely that he’d never succumbed to that weak emotion at all.
“Are you married?” she asked impulsively, realizing even as the words left her mouth that the question was inappropriate.
He smiled, his eyes twinkling. “No. Never have been. Never even came close.”
She offered no follow-up question, in case he thought she was flirting or something. Her momentary curiosity was satisfied.
They talked a few more minutes about Terry. She provided a photo, gave a detailed description of his habits and attitudes, right down to his favorite brand of beer. She actually found herself reluctant to have the detective leave, despite the fact that she’d bared herself to him, almost as if he’d seen her in her underwear.
He made a closer inspection of the room, walking around with an easy grace, looking but not touching anything. Finally he looked down at the carpeted floor. “Did there used to be a rug here? An area rug, I mean, on top of the carpet. There seems to be an outline defining an area that’s less worn.”
“There—” Jess stopped. “Oh, my God.”
“What?” Branson’s voice was laced with sudden tension.
“He took my Oriental rug.” This was beyond belief. “That bastard took my rug. It was hand-woven silk over a hundred years old.”
Scribbling again. “Worth a lot of money?”
“Yes, I’m sure it was, but that’s not the point. It belonged to my great-grandmother. Why, out of all the things in this house, would he—”
“Are you sure Terry took it?” Branson asked, once again the consummate cop. “When was the last time you noticed it?”
She thought for a moment. “I don’t remember when I noticed it last. It’s been in this room ever since I moved in five years ago. And yes, I’m sure it was him. No one else has had access.”
“But you didn’t notice it was gone until now?”
“Not until you pointed it out.” It amazed her that her powers of observation were so dull, but lately she’d spent very little time in this room.
“And he didn’t take it with him when he left two nights ago?”
“Now that I would have noticed. He couldn’t have fitted it into the taxi, anyway. It was huge. He must have taken it and sold it at some point earlier,” she said, thinking aloud.
“Did he need money?” Branson asked. “Was he on drugs?”
“He always needed money, but not huge amounts. I’m pretty sure he didn’t do drugs. But I guess I didn’t know him nearly as well as I thought.”
Branson nodded noncommittally, made a few more notations in his pad, then stuffed it back in his breast pocket. As he exited the room, he stopped, looking down at the floor in the hallway. “There’s a stain on the rug.”
“Oh, really?” She was about to comment that it was rather uncalled for of him to point out the shortcomings in her housekeeping skills until she realized he was taking more than a casual interest in her carpeting. He stooped down and ran his fingers over the round, reddish brown spots.
“Is this a fresh stain?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I never noticed it before, I guess.”
“It looks like blood.”
Jess’s heart skipped a beat. She bent down to have a closer look, bringing her uncomfortably close to the detective. She caught a whiff of his aftershave. She recognized it as one of the brands Terry wore, and she recoiled.
“It could be blood, I suppose. Terry cut himself shaving last weekend, but I’m not sure the cut was bad enough that he would have been dripping blood.”
Branson stared at her in a way that made her decidedly uncomfortable. She knew what he was thinking.
“No way,” she said. “Terry was whole and hearty when he left here two days ago.”
“And you’re sure he hasn’t been back?”
“Positive. Well, no, not positive,” she said on second thought. “He could have slipped in when I was gone, but what for?”
Branson didn’t answer. Instead he asked, “Does he have a key?”
“He did, but he gave it back. I made sure of that. Although I suppose he could have made a copy. But I don’t think he’s that devious.”
“Do you worry that he might return?”
“Frankly, yes, and I want to prevent that at all costs. If he wants his stuff, I’ll box it up and deliver it to him, but he’s not setting foot through that front door ever again. It probably would take a bulldozer to get him out a second time.”
Her attempt at humor fell flat.
Branson rubbed his fingers over the stain one final time before standing. He gave her another one of those appraising looks, as if he wasn’t quite buying everything she said. Or as if he was wondering what he might do to make her talk.
His silent assessment made her shiver. She’d done the best she could; why did he make her so nervous?
As she walked him to the door, he said nothing else until he’d stepped onto the front porch. Then he turned and gave her a warning that chilled her to her heart: “Don’t wash the rug. Don’t touch it. We may want to check it out.”
Dear God, did this guy really think some harm had befallen Terry in her house? And did he think...that she’d done it?
