THE MIDDLE SIN Page 4

  Aban­do­ning the cup­bo­ards, she se­ar­c­hed the frid­ge and the trash can. She fo­und a re­ce­ipt in the trash in­di­ca­ting Trish shop­ped for her fo­od and per­so­nal items at a lo­cal Wal-Mart Su­per Cen­ter, but not much el­se of im­me­di­ate use.

  After the kit­c­hen she tur­ned to the so­me-as­sem­b­ly-re­qu­ired com­pu­ter stand that ser­ved as Trish's ho­me of­fi­ce. The an­s­we­ring mac­hi­ne yi­el­ded only in­c­re­asingly con­cer­ned mes­sa­ges from Di­ane Wal­ker and Trish's pa­rents. The ho­me com­pu­ter sho­wed a chec­king-ac­co­unt ba­lan­ce of fo­ur hun­d­red and twen­ty-six dol­lars, with no unu­su­al wit­h­d­ra­wals or de­po­sits. The bank had al­so is­su­ed her a Vi­sa card. Cleo wo­uld check with De­tec­ti­ve De­ve­re­a­ux in the mor­ning to see if he'd ob­ta­ined a re­cord of char­ges.

  The mid-Ap­ril af­ter­no­on had tur­ned ste­amy by the ti­me she loc­ked the apar­t­ment do­or be­hind her. Her li­nen-blend bla­zer was sho­wing the ef­fects of the muggy he­at. Tos­sing the wrin­k­led jac­ket in­to the back se­at, she spent an un­p­ro­duc­ti­ve twenty mi­nu­tes with the apar­t­ment-com­p­lex ma­na­ger.

  The wo­man va­gu­ely re­mem­be­red Trish from when she'd mo­ved in a lit­tle less than a ye­ar ago, but that was it. Se­cu­rity-ca­me­ra swe­eps of the com­mon are­as out­si­de her apar­t­ment didn't help. No unu­su­al traf­fic in or out of the apar­t­ment. No un­fa­mi­li­ar ve­hic­les par­ked for long stret­c­hes of ti­me in the slots ne­ar hers.

  Pho­ne calls to lo­cal num­bers lis­ted in the ad­dress bo­ok prin­to­ut pro­du­ced no le­ads. Most of them had al­re­ady be­en con­tac­ted, first by Di­ane, then by the po­li­ce. The Mo­toP­ho­to that had de­ve­lo­ped the star­fish pix had no un­c­la­imed rolls of film wa­iting for Trish. No one at the Wal-Mart Su­per Cen­ter re­mem­be­red her fa­ce or her na­me. Cleo's butt was drag­ging as she wo­ve her way thro­ugh the Wal-Mart par­king lot to­ward the Es­ca­la­de. Her ab­rupt en­co­un­ter with the con­c­re­te flo­or of the loc­ker ro­om this mor­ning was star­ting to ma­ke it­self felt.

  She was tem­p­ted to call it a day but de­ci­ded to tie up one lo­ose end. Easing in­to the SUV, she tur­ned the air con­di­ti­oner on full blast whi­le she cal­led for in­for­ma­ti­on on We­ight Wat­c­hers cli­nics. She was in luck. The ne­arest lo­ca­ti­on was only a few blocks from Trish's apar­t­ment com­p­lex and had a me­eting sche­du­led to be­gin in a half ho­ur.

  The cli­nic was jam­med. Long li­nes of men and wo­men just co­ming off work wa­ited to we­igh in and get the­ir cards stam­ped. Cleo wor­ked her way to the front of the li­ne and ig­no­red the elec­t­ro­nic sca­le.

  "I'm Cleo North." She slid her PI. li­cen­se to the at­ten­dant be­hind the co­un­ter. "I'm lo­oking for a wo­man by the na­me of Pat­ri­cia Jac­k­son. She's drop­ped out of sight and her fa­mily's wor­ri­ed abo­ut her."

  "I'm sorry, I don't.

  "You might know her by the nic­k­na­me Trish."

  "Oh! Trish. She hasn't be­en in for se­ve­ral we­eks. Not sin­ce…"

  The wo­man clic­ked a few keys on her com­pu­ter and squ­in­ted at the scre­en thro­ugh the re­ading glas­ses per­c­hed on the end of her no­se.

  "Not sin­ce Ap­ril 1."

  A lit­tle cre­ase for­med bet­we­en the at­ten­dant's brows. She pur­sed her lips, pe­ered at the scre­en and swung her ga­ze back to Cleo.

  "Did you say Trish is in so­me kind of tro­ub­le?"

  "We don't know. She's di­sap­pe­ared. Why? Is the­re so­met­hing in the com­pu­ter abo­ut her?"

  "I, uh, bet­ter get my su­per­vi­sor."

  An in­ves­ti­ga­tor who pla­yed by the bo­ok wo­uld wa­it pa­ti­ently un­til the wo­man re­tur­ned and then con­vin­ce the su­per­vi­sor of the gra­vity of the si­tu­ati­on. One of the re­asons Cleo and the air for­ce had par­ted ways, tho­ugh, was her ten­dency to bend, stretch or ot­her­wi­se tor­que the ru­les.

  She glan­ced thro­ugh the glass win­dow, saw Co­un­ter Wo­man in con­sul­ta­ti­on with Su­per­vi­sor Lady, and le­aned ac­ross the co­un­ter to sne­ak a pe­ek.

  She left the cli­nic a few mi­nu­tes la­ter, ar­med with the in­for­ma­ti­on that We­ight Wat­c­hers had sus­pen­ded Trish from its we­ig­ht-loss prog­ram due to her sta­ted be­li­ef she might be preg­nant.

  Che­wing on her lo­wer lip, Cleo ma­de for the SUV. As much as she wan­ted to find Slo­an's mis­sing em­p­lo­yee sa­fe and un­har­med, she didn't li­ke the pic­tu­re that was be­gin­ning to form.

  She ho­ped to God this wasn't anot­her La­ci Pe­ter­son or Che­ri­ca Adams si­tu­ati­on. Pe­ter­son's hus­band had be­en char­ged with mur­de­ring his wi­fe and her un­born child. Adams's boy­f­ri­end, an ex-fo­ot­ball pla­yer for the Ca­ro­li­na Pan­t­hers, was ser­ving hard ti­me for his ro­le in the exe­cu­ti­on-st­y­le mur­der of his preg­nant gir­l­f­ri­end. The bas­tard had ar­ran­ged to ha­ve her kil­led to avo­id pa­ying child sup­port. Doc­tors had sa­ved the baby, but Che­ri­ca di­ed a month la­ter.

  As yet the­re wasn't any evi­den­ce lin­king Irish's di­sap­pe­aran­ce to her pos­sib­le preg­nancy, but Cleo's in­s­tincts we­re star­ting to re­ar the­ir ugly he­ads.

  The sun was a fla­ming red ball han­ging just abo­ve the har­bor when Cleo tur­ned in­to the al­ley that led to Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering's cor­po­ra­te gu­est ho­use.

  The two-story brick-and-stuc­co re­si­den­ce was lo­ca­ted in the area de­pic­ted on the city map as High Bat­tery. The slick lit­tle broc­hu­re tuc­ked in­si­de the fol­der with the key-card in­for­med Cleo that the gu­est re­si­den­ce on­ce ser­ved as stab­les and car­ri­age ho­use for a we­althy ri­ce plan­ter who­se town re­si­den­ce was one of Char­les­ton's show-pla­ces. Af­ter the key card snic­ked in the lock and Cleo step­ped in­si­de, she felt her eyes pop.

  "Whoa!"

  So­me­how she sus­pec­ted the hor­ses hadn't enj­oyed this ele­gant mix of he­art-pi­ne flo­oring, was­hed-brick walls and ex­po­sed be­am ce­ilings. Her bo­ot he­els sin­king in what felt li­ke two in­c­hes of car­pet run­ner, she drop­ped her car­ryall and went ex­p­lo­ring.

  The dow­n­s­ta­irs in­c­lu­ded a li­ving ro­om fur­nis­hed with pe­ri­od an­ti­qu­es and high-tech en­ter­ta­in­ment systems, a di­ning ro­om with a well-stoc­ked bar en­ca­sed in an ear­ly-ni­ne­te­en­th-cen­tury si­de­bo­ard, and a kit­c­hen with, among many ot­her shiny giz­mos, the only ap­pli­an­ce Cleo con­si­de­red ab­so­lu­tely es­sen­ti­al. Af­ter gi­ving the cof­fe­ema­ker a fri­endly pat, she to­ok her bag up­s­ta­irs.

  The cho­ice was bet­we­en a mon­s­ter of a su­ite at the front of the car­ri­age ho­use, com­p­le­te with fo­ur-pos­ter and Jacuz­zi tub, or a smal­ler su­ite at the re­ar over­lo­oking a han­d­ker­c­hi­ef-si­ze gar­den. The gar­den won hands down.

  Drawn by the mu­sic of wa­ter splas­hing in­to the three-ti­ered, pi­ne­ap­ple-top­ped sto­ne fo­un­ta­in be­low, Cleo pus­hed open the French do­ors and plop­ped in­to one of the roc­king cha­irs that mar­c­hed along the bal­cony. Fe­at­hery ferns drip­ped from han­ging pots and stir­red in the bre­eze. The roc­king cha­ir cre­aked li­ke an old fri­end. For a few mo­ments she shel­ved her gat­he­ring con­cerns abo­ut Trish Jac­k­son and simply so­aked in the per­fu­me of the eve­ning.

  "Now, this," she mur­mu­red, squ­e­aking away, "is the way to li­ve." "I think so, too."

  The amu­sed drawl ca­me from be­hind her. Her bo­ot he­els hit the porch flo­or with a thump. So­me se­cu­rity ex­pert she was. She hadn't bot­he­red to check the gu­est ho­use's alarm system, much less set it.

  If all in­t­ru­ders ca­me pac­ka­ged the way Marc Slo­an did, tho­ugh, she might just le­ave the do­or wi­de open du­
ring her stay in Char­les­ton. For­get Pi­er­ce Bros­nan. In this set­ting, with the bre­eze ruf­fling his dark ha­ir and his whi­te dress shirt open at the neck, he was Rhett But­ler in­car­na­te. All he ne­eded was a pen­cil-thin mus­tac­he to com­p­le­te the ima­ge.

  "I saw yo­ur car par­ked out­si­de the car­ri­age ho­use," he sa­id with a smi­le that was ob­vi­o­usly in­ten­ded to ex­cu­se his una­ut­ho­ri­zed entry. It wor­ked for Cleo. "Tho­ught I'd stroll over and see if you had ever­y­t­hing you ne­eded." "Stroll over?"

  "I li­ve in the ma­in re­si­den­ce just ac­ross the al­ley. I had the car­ri­age ho­use re­no­va­ted to use as gu­est qu­ar­ters when I bo­ught the es­ta­te."

  "Con­ve­ni­ent."

  "At ti­mes."

  "This be­ing one of them?"

  "This be­ing one of them."

  In the de­epe­ning sha­dows she co­uld ba­rely ma­ke out the glint in his eyes. It was the­re, tho­ugh. Too bad Cleo co­uldn't fol­low up on it. With a sigh of re­al reg­ret, she pus­hed out of the roc­king cha­ir.

  "Do you re­call what you sa­id this mor­ning abo­ut not mi­xing bu­si­ness with ple­asu­re?"

  "Yes."

  "Sa­me go­es."

  Des­pi­te her li­be­ral ap­pro­ach to ru­les in ge­ne­ral, she did ad­he­re to her own set of pro­fes­si­onal et­hics. Jum­ping in the sack with a cli­ent the first day on the job was a de­fi­ni­te no-no, par­ti­cu­larly when she was star­ting to get a go­osey fe­el abo­ut sa­id cli­ent's exact re­la­ti­on­s­hip to his mis­sing em­p­lo­yee.

  She ne­eded to pro­be that re­la­ti­on­s­hip a lit­tle mo­re but wan­ted to see Marc's fa­ce when she did. Ca­su­al­ly, she slap­ped at a mos­qu­ito fe­as­ting on the un­der­si­de of her arm.

  "The na­ti­ves are get­ting res­t­less. Let's go in­si­de and I'll gi­ve you an up­da­te on my af­ter­no­on ac­ti­vi­ti­es."

  "Why don't you up­da­te me over din­ner?" he sug­ges­ted as they to­ok the sta­irs to the first flo­or. "My chef's pre­pa­red su­gar­ca­ne shrimp in yo­ur ho­nor. It's a lo­cal spe­ci­alty and one of his best dis­hes."

  Su­gar­ca­ne shrimp so­un­ded too go­od to pass up. Ad­ding spi­ce to the dish was the op­por­tu­nity to see Marc Slo­an in his na­ti­ve ha­bi­tat.

  "Gi­ve me fif­te­en mi­nu­tes to get un­pac­ked and cle­an up."

  "J­ust wan­der ac­ross the al­ley whe­ne­ver you're re­ady."

  She was re­ady in con­si­de­rably less than fif­te­en mi­nu­tes but used the spa­re ti­me for a qu­ick call to her fat­her. Cros­sing her fin­gers that Pat­rick wo­uld pick up in­s­te­ad of his bri­de, Cleo hit spe­ed di­al.

  The gods we­re con­s­pi­ring aga­inst her. Wan­da not only an­s­we­red, she was still waf­fling over wal­lpa­per.

  "I just can't ma­ke up my mind whet­her to go with a print or a stri­pe for the gu­est ro­om." Sur­p­ri­se, sur­p­ri­se. "What do you think, Cleo?" "Why don't you hang a sam­p­le of each on op­po­si­te walls and see which works best for you?" "I sup­po­se I co­uld do that. Al­t­ho­ugh…" Cleo smot­he­red a sigh.

  "Yo­ur fat­her re­al­ly li­kes the co­un­t­ry-French mu­ral sam­p­le I bro­ught ho­me. It do­esn't go with the rest of the ho­use, tho­ugh."

  Cleo had to smi­le at that. Af­ter a li­fe­ti­me of tra­vel, Pat­rick North had fil­led his re­ti­re­ment ho­me with me­men­to­es that in­c­lu­ded ever­y­t­hing from an Eg­y­p­ti­an obe­lisk to a wa­ter buf­fa­lo he­ad. Os­car the wa­ter buf­fa­lo got re­le­ga­ted to the at­tic so­on af­ter Wan­da mo­ved in, but no­ne of Pat­rick's re­ma­ining obj­ets de junk wo­uld go with stri­pes, prints or co­un­t­ry-French mu­rals. For a mo­ment, Cleo felt so­met­hing dan­ge­ro­usly clo­se to sympathy for her step­mot­her.

  "When will you be ho­me?" Wan­da as­ked. "I'm not su­re."

  "Well, the­re's not­hing pres­sing abo­ut this. I'll wa­it un­til you get back to Dal­las to pick out the pa­per."

  "Oh. Okay."

  "Yo­ur dad just ca­me up­s­ta­irs. He­re he is."

  He pic­ked up, whe­ezing a lit­tle. "Hey, kid­do."

  "Hi­ya, Pop." Cleo hid her in­s­tant worry be­hind a bre­ezy ir­re­ve­ren­ce. "So­unds li­ke you're puf­fing.

  Are you hit­ting the cho­co­la­te fud­ge sa­uce aga­in?"

  "Not hardly. Wan­da's got me co­un­ting fat grams and carbs and ca­lo­ri­es. All I eat the­se days are raw car­rots and ice cu­bes."

  She knew that wasn't true but had to gi­ve her step­mot­her po­ints for trying to curb her fat­her's he­arty ap­pe­ti­te.

  "What are you do­ing in Char­les­ton?" "Wor­king a lo­ca­te."

  "So­unds pretty ta­me com­pa­red to so­me of yo­ur re­cent ca­ses." "It is."

  So far, an­y­way.

  "You su­re you're fe­eling okay, Pop?" He he­aved a me­lod­ra­ma­tic sigh. "One lit­tle he­art cramp, and a man can't even huff wit­ho­ut ever­yo­ne re­ac­hing for the nit­ro."

  "J­ust ta­ke it easy, okay? And don't down too many Vi­ag­ras."

  It was a me­asu­re of the­ir uni­que re­la­ti­on­s­hip 1 that Pat­rick only la­ug­hed. He wo­uld no mo­re dis­cuss his lo­ve li­fe with Cleo than she wo­uld hers with him.

  Not that she had an­y­t­hing to dis­cuss the­se days. The Te­xas Ran­ger out­fi­el­der she'd got­ten in­vol­ved with shortly af­ter le­aving the air for­ce was now only a dis­tant me­mory. The law­yer she'd be­en da­ting off and on for most of the last ye­ar had al­so bit­ten the dust.

  Things had he­ated up con­si­de­rably when Spe­ci­al Agent Jack Do­no­van had ap­pe­ared in San­ta Fe a few months ago. The em­bers we­re still ali­ve, but fa­ding fast.

  "Co­me over when you get ho­me," her fat­her in­s­t­ruc­ted. "We'll fi­re up the grill and do ribs."

  "How abo­ut we do chic­ken or fish?"

  "Wha­te­ver. Tac­hi-dao, kid­do."

  "Tac­hi-dao, Pop."

  They'd adop­ted the phra­se ye­ars ago. Ro­ughly tran­s­la­ted, it me­ant sharp sword in the lan­gu­age of the Ryuk­yu Is­lands. Pat­rick had ex­t­rac­ted the phra­se from an an­ci­ent pro­verb that ad­vi­sed tra­ve­lers to ma­in­ta­in vi­gi­lan­ce and ke­ep a sharp sword. For fat­her and da­ug­h­ter, it was shor­t­hand for ta­ke ca­re, stay sa­fe, I lo­ve you. The two sim­p­le words al­ways put a smi­le in Cleo's he­art.

  It sta­yed with her as she he­aded dow­n­s­ta­irs and ac­ross the al­ley to Marc Slo­an's ho­use.

  4

  v_ros­sing the pas­sa­ge­way bet­we­en the for­mer car­ri­age ho­use and the ma­in re­si­den­ce to­ok Cleo from the me­rely ele­gant to the ex­qu­isi­te. She wasn't re­al up on for­mal gar­dens and co­lo­ni­al ar­c­hi­tec­tu­re, but the bric­k­work in the path le­ading thro­ugh the ro­ses and gar­de­ni­as was as in­t­ri­ca­te as the le­aded fan­lights over the win­dows.

  Marc met her at the front do­or, which hap­pe­ned to be at the si­de of the ho­use. Wi­de brick steps led up to a porch flan­ked by Do­ric co­lumns that so­ared for three sto­ri­es and sup­por­ted the up­per pi­az­zas. In­si­de the do­or was a cir­cu­lar sta­ir­ca­se that spi­ra­led up­ward with no vi­sib­le me­ans of sup­port.

  "The ho­use was bu­ilt in 1825," Marc sa­id in an­s­wer to her qu­es­ti­on. "The ori­gi­nal ow­ner was a nce plan­ter with con­si­de­rab­le pro­perty up­ri­ver.

  His fat­her was one of the sig­ners of the Dec­la­ra­ti­on of In­de­pen­den­ce."

  "No kid­ding?"

  "No kid­ding. In­te­res­tingly, the ow­ner's gran­d­son was a ca­det at the Ci­ta­del. Ru­mor has it he was one of the kids who to­ok aim at a Uni­on supply ship en­te­ring the har­bor in Janu­ary 1861, thus par­ti­ci­pa­ting in the first bar­ra­ge of the War of Suc­ces­si­on. My fat­her wo­uld ha­ve ap­p
re­ci­ated the irony," he ad­ded dryly. "The ge­ne­ral was a con­no­is­se­ur of such his­to­ri­cal pa­ra­do­xes."

  The com­ment trig­ge­red a me­mory of a si­mi­lar re­mark he'd ma­de in San­ta Fe. Evi­dently ne­it­her Marc nor his twin har­bo­red warm, cuddly me­mo­ri­es of the man who'd adop­ted them at birth.

  "Wo­uld you li­ke a drink be­fo­re din­ner? I mi­xed a pit­c­her of mar­ti­nis but ha­ve be­en known to po­ur a me­an Scar­lett O'Ha­ra."

  "What is it, asi­de from re­dun­dant?"

  "So­ut­hern Com­fort with a splash of cran­ber­ry ju­ice and a twist of li­me. De­li­ci­o­us to lo­ok at, but tart and po­tent. Very much li­ke you."

  "Why, thank you, sir."

  Bat­ting her las­hes, she did her best Te­xas-girl ha­ir fluff. It was an ac­qu­ired skill, sin­ce Geo had only ta­ken up per­ma­nent re­si­den­ce in the Lo­ne Star Sta­te af­ter le­aving the air for­ce.

  "I'll ha­ve a mar­ti­ni. Stra­ight up, with a twist."

  Marc swept a hand to­ward a high-ce­ilin­ged ro­om ac­ross the fo­yer. "The bar is in the mu­sic ro­om."

  Her brow hit­c­hed, but when she step­ped in­to the long hall she saw it re­al­ly was a mu­sic ro­om, com­p­le­te with a clus­ter of lyre-bac­ked cha­irs, mu­sic stands and a harp, for God's sa­ke. The in­s­t­ru­ment was one of tho­se big job­bers, tal­ler than Cleo, with two tho­usand or so keys run­ning down its spi­ne or neck or wha­te­ver it was cal­led.

  "Do you play?" she as­ked, trying to pic­tu­re Slo­an with the harp bet­we­en his kne­es.

  "I ta­ke a stab at it oc­ca­si­onal­ly." A grin slas­hed ac­ross his fa­ce. "When I'm fe­eling re­al­ly pis­sed abo­ut li­fe in ge­ne­ral and mar­ri­age in par­ti­cu­lar. My first wi­fe in­sis­ted we pur­c­ha­se the harp with the ho­use. She tho­ught it ad­ded to the am­bi­en­ce. I pluck the strings every on­ce in a whi­le as a re­min­der of what am­bi­en­ce can do to a mar­ri­age."