“She had a bruise?” I ask.

  “Yep,” Stone says. “We told them you’ll be reaching out to them tomorrow.”

  Rhonda removes a file marked Property from my desk. Glancing over it she asks, “What did Julia say when you brought up the divorce?”

  “She kind of downplayed it,” Stone says, transferring her weight to her other foot.

  “Check with the CSI team and see if you can get an ETA on the DNA analysis,” I say.

  “Will do.” They leave my office.

  Rhonda continues standing. She walks toward the wall opposite my desk, looking up, her head moving from side to side. “What’s your gut tell you?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But I do know this: you’re only as good as the last case you solved. I can’t fall back on those accolades up there. We have to break this one, Rhonda, and we have to do it fast. What are you feeling?”

  “Something’s amiss. Let’s revisit the list.” Rhonda, with anticipation, faces forward.

  “This is what we have so far,” I say, opening the file labeled Keith James Pritchard.

  According to his assistant, he was last seen at work yesterday, Tuesday, June 13.

  He was a no-show for his 5:00 a.m. flight today, Wednesday, June 14.

  His car was abandoned in Shady Grove last night, Tuesday, June 13, between 8:00 p.m. and 8:30 p.m.

  There is blood in the car.

  Keith was at the beginning stages of a roadshow to take his company public.

  He has a daughter who recently graduated from college.

  He’s in the process of divorcing his wife, a former sitcom star, and she and the daughter were in the process of moving out when he went missing.

  He’s the founder and CEO of Pritchard & Calhoun Securities—a private firm worth a couple billion dollars.

  His family founded Dancing Hills.

  His first wife was abducted in 2001 and was never found.

  He’s the largest employer in Dancing Hills.

  According to his assistant, he’s a good man.

  “Who would want to hurt a good man?” I ask.

  Rhonda squints and says, “Nobody is all good, especially anybody who has a company worth billions. You don’t get that rich without making enemies.”

  “Let’s assume he’s been whacked. You think somebody in his business circle killed him because he was taking the company public? Maybe some competitor?”

  “That’s a possibility. But I can’t help but go back to basics. Who’s the first person we look at when there’s foul play?”

  “The spouse.” I rub my hand over my silk tie, considering the bruise. “You think the wife took him out?”

  “You heard she had a bruise on her face, and I doubt she ran into anything,” Rhonda says. My eyes shift to her clenched fist. “She might even have a financial motive.”

  “A guy like that most likely has a prenup. Maybe he was abusing her. Maybe he hit her one too many times. I agree with you. I don’t believe she got it running into anything.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What time is the assistant supposed to arrive? We really need a list of people in his inner circle,” I say, rubbing my palms. “Hopefully, she’ll be as forthcoming as she was on the phone today.”

  “I’ll go see if she’s here.”

  Before Rhonda reaches the door, it opens. “Kathleen Brody is here. I put her in the conference room.”

  “Thanks, Stone,” I say.

  She leaves, and Rhonda and I give each other a thumbs-up.

  “We couldn’t be more opposite,” she says, laughing. “You in your designer suit and me in my old lady dress and sweater.”

  “Opposites attract. Let’s go talk to Ms. Brody.”

  ~~~

  We enter the conference room, and Kathleen, a sixty-something plump woman, sitting at the table, gives us a shaky smile. Wearing pearl earrings, a matching necklace, and an expensive-looking brown skirt suit with a silk blouse, she looks like she works for a man with money.

  “Thank you for coming in.” I extend my hand. Rhonda does the same, and Kathleen reciprocates. We sit across from her. She runs her fingers through her brown hair with gray roots, then reaches into her purse for an envelope. She sets it on the table. Then she bursts into tears. Rhonda grabs a tissue box out of a credenza drawer and hands it to her. She dabs at her reddened face.

  “I’m sorry for falling apart, but I’m terrified about what might have happened to Keith. He’s like my son. I hope you find him. I feel like I’m the only one who cares.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  “I told Julia and Blythe that we needed to call the police early this morning, but they pretty much dismissed my concerns.”

  “Why do you think they weren’t concerned?” I ask.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I told the officer this morning that Keith and Julia are divorcing because she cheated on him. He never should have married her. I’ve played nice over the years for Keith’s sake, but I always felt Julia married Keith for his money. Her so-called career was on the downturn when she met him. He’s supported her financially all these years.”

  Rhonda’s brows rise so high they reach her hairline. “Are you saying she had something to do with his disappearance?”

  Kathleen passes her wrinkled hands over her overly made-up face and sighs. “I can’t say for sure, but you really need to check into her. In the meantime, I brought a list of all the people who know and have worked closely with Keith.” She hands me the envelope.

  “Is there anyone else on the list you think may be responsible for Keith’s disappearance?”

  “I’m not really sure.” She glances at her watch. “I’m sorry, but I have to leave. I have another appointment. You know where to reach me,” she says, standing.

  “Thank you for coming in,” I say. “And we’ll be in touch.”

  “Just find him.” She shuffles out of the conference room.

  “Let’s get busy,” I say.

  Chapter 5

  Blythe

  I shut my eyes while the Mariachi musician serenades the couple sitting next to me on the patio of my favorite restaurant. The sound of the violin, coupled with images of the bloody shirt and the exchange Julia and I had in the kitchen earlier, swirling around in my head, nauseates me. She’s either a better actress than I thought, or she doesn’t have anything to do with my father’s disappearance. I hope the latter is true.

  After the police left the house, Julia and I answered every question on the missing persons questionnaire and faxed the answers to the Dancing Hills Missing Persons Unit. The list was exhaustive: full name, date of birth, height, weight, age, build. Does the individual chew gum? Does the individual have particular banking habits? Does the individual have any personal or emotional problems? Regarding the last query, I could fill a book answering that question. We were told we’ll receive a file number and the primary investigator’s contact information.

  I open my eyes and glance at my phone. It’s 4:15 p.m. My father’s been officially missing for twelve hours and fifteen minutes. A Los Angeles to Moscow flight takes twelve hours and ten minutes. Maybe he’s hangin’ out with Putin. I’d rather that than for him to be dead. I think about all the times I wanted him to die—the times he would hurt Julia. But now the thought of him no longer existing makes me feel empty and lost. I hate the way I feel.

  To make matters worse, now Martha’s missing—Martha and the bag containing my father’s bloody shirt. She fled when the police arrived. Thank god she took the shirt. I should have known the police would want to search the house. We’ve tried her on her cell, but it goes straight to voicemail. If she doesn’t return our call within the hour, we plan to make a visit to her house. Julia’s worried about her, and I’m beginning to think Martha, and not Julia, is the culprit. On our way here, Julia stopped by the nursing home to pick up her phone. They had it waiting at the front desk, so we didn’t have to see my grandmother. We both have a hard time leaving there once we lay eyes on her.

  “Miss, would you like a refill?”

  I turn toward the tall brunette and nod. She pours tea into my glass. “Thank you,” I say as I notice Julia coming from the ladies’ room. The waitress leaves, and Julia joins me at our table.

  Tense and red in the face she says, “How’s your burrito?” She pokes at her salad and forces herself to take a bite.

  “I can’t eat. I’m nauseous.”

  “Perfect timing.” She juts her chin toward the Mariachi making his way to a table inside the restaurant.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “The violin playing and us sitting here on pity pots.”

  “Right,” I say, with a dry chuckle. “Yeah, well we have a right to be on the friggin’ pity pot.”

  “I hope we hear from Martha soon.” She swipes her finger along her phone screen. “I think she was thinking the same thing you were, and that’s why she took the shirt.”

  “Right.”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “I don’t know. There’s just something strange about her leaving with it—that, and those red scratches on her arm. What if there was a struggle?”

  “So you think she’s involved?”

  “I’m not sure, Julia. Let’s see what she says about the scratches. Anyway, this whole thing is a crazy mystery to me. The blood is what has me off-kilter—the blood on the shirt and in the car. Something’s happened to him.”

  “I still think we should have told the police about the shirt,” Julia says.

  I get a pang of guilt in my gut, realizing I was wrong about her. She runs her slender fingers through her hair, sighs, then rests her hands on the table, her gaze fixed on me. She reminds me of an antique porcelain doll, button nose and all. Looking at her, I’m hit with a wave of sadness. All she ever wanted to do was make a home for my father and me. She loved him. I used to watch her on TV and fantasize about her being my mother, and my wish came true. My father made my dream a reality. He was amazing back then. It’s no wonder Julia fell in love with him. My tenth birthday was one of the best days of my life. I close my eyes and relish the memory.

  ~~~

  “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Blythe. Happy birthday to you.” I stood in front of my strawberry cream cake, grinning so big I thought my ears would fall off.

  “Make a wish!” my friends screamed.

  I shut my eyes tight. God, please send me a new mother. With my eyes still closed, I blew out the candles. When I opened them, the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen was standing in front of me. Tears flooded my eyes, and my lips trembled.

  I looked at my father, and he said, “Happy birthday, darling. I want you to meet Julia Wesley.”

  Before I realized what I was doing, I ran to her and held her around her waist. She ran her hand over my black pigtails in a loving way. “Happy birthday, Blythe.”

  The room filled with applause. Even my paternal grandmother, Dolores, who complains about everything, was impressed. I later learned my father had met Julia three weeks before in a coffee shop, and they had gone on a few dates. She had given him a signed photograph but decided an even better gift would be for her to show up in the flesh.

  ~~~

  “I need what you’re drinking,” Julia says, a sparkle of curiosity in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I was daydreaming.” I sit upright, looking around the empty patio, glad we have the area to ourselves.

  Julia covers her salad with a napkin. “About what?” She leans forward, her head slightly tipped, her hand under her dimpled chin.

  “My tenth birthday party—the day I met you.”

  Her eyes light up, and I smile, imagining her recollecting that glorious day. “If only we could go back to that time,” she says, sadness clouding her face.

  Shoved back to reality, I say, “Julia, we need to put our heads together to figure out this puzzle.”

  “Where do we start?” she asks with raised brows.

  “Let’s start with why you think he’s alive.” I scoot closer to Julia.

  “I just have this feeling. Your father is too mean to die. He’s a fighter.”

  “Then what’s he doing?”

  “I think he’s torturing us mentally. You know him. You know how controlling he is. No one walks away from Keith Pritchard. He gets rid of folk; they don’t leave him. His ego is bruised. What better way to screw up our plans than to go into hiding?”

  “What about the shirt and the car being abandoned, the blood? Would he take things that far?”

  “I believe he would.”

  “Just humor me for a minute, Julia. Let’s say there is foul play involved—who do you think would want to hurt him?”

  “Besides us?”

  I’m taken aback. I’ve never said I wanted to hurt my father. Besides the time I jabbed him in the back, I’ve never thought about hurting him, and even then was in Julia’s defense. Julia, on the other hand, did say she would kill him if he ever hit her again. I thought she’d said it in the heat of the moment. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course,” she says, setting her phone aside.

  “Remember when my father nearly killed you?”

  “Unfortunately, I do.”

  “Remember you said that if he ever put his hands on you again, that you would kill him?”

  “I remember.”

  “Did you mean what you said?”

  “At the time, I did. Why?” We sit in a moment of silence, and then she says, “Blythe, as I told you earlier, Keith didn’t hit me, and I didn’t kill him.”

  “Who do you think did?”

  “I don’t think he’s dead, Blythe.”

  “If the police come back with a positive on the blood in the car, they’re going to start investigating everyone my father knows and us.”

  “I believe Keith is setting us up.”

  “You think he put the bloody shirt in the laundry room, abandoned his car, and left the blood there?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “That’s what happened in that book Gone Girl.”

  “Well, in our case it’s Gone Guy.”

  I want to believe her theory. I want to believe my father is still alive. And she’s right—he’s a fighter. He’s invincible. No one hurt him. He is setting us up. I can’t believe I fell for his plot. “You’re right, Julia. This is all him. This was his plan all along. We need to be proactive.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “We should go back to the house and search it. Something there might help us figure out what he’s up to.”

  “Speaking of searches, do you think the police will want to search the house again? You know, really search it, with a forensics team. Like on TV.”

  “I think it might be a while before that happens. We’re not officially suspects, and as far as the police know, the crime scene is the car—the fake crime scene, that is. We need to beat him at his own game.”

  “How so?”

  “We agree that he’s playing dead, so let’s act as if he is. Let’s be the grieving daughter and widow. Julia, I need you to put on a performance of a lifetime. We need to hold a press conference and put together a team of volunteers to help look for my father.”

  Her face lights up with what appears to be a surge of excitement. “Maybe all the attention will bring him out of hiding. By the way, you’re going to make a great lawyer, Blythe.”

  “Thank you,” I say, looking toward the approaching waitress.

  “Do you ladies need anything else?”

  “No, we’re good. You can bring the bill.” Julia reaches for her wallet.

  “Will do,” the waitress says.

  “So—” Julia’s ringing phone cuts her off. “Damn.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Grandmother Dolores,” she says, her voice dripping with disgust “She’s going to have to leave a message. I can’t deal with her right now.”

  We wait a few minutes, then Julia checks her voicemail.

  Julia, we received your message, but it was unintelligible, beyond garbled. All we heard was something about Keith missing his flight. I am a bit concerned because Jim and I reached out to Keith on his cellular phone, and we had to sit through that dreadful recording. He did not answer. Contact us immediately. Again, call me because I do not want to have to contact Kathleen the blatherskite.

  The waitress returns with the bill, and Julia pays with cash. “Thank you,” the waitress says. She takes the check presenter and leaves.

  “What do you think about her message?” Julia asks.

  I shake my head. “She’ll always be a piece of work.”

  “It’s a wonder Keith didn’t end up being a killer.”

  The hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What you said … about my father being a killer made me think about my mother.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve never said this out loud before, but sometimes I wonder if my father had anything to do with my mother’s disappearance.”

  “I’ve thought the same thing.”

  “I know I was only six at the time she was supposedly abducted, but I remember things. I remember fighting and screaming—my father hitting her. But it wasn’t ongoing like it was with you. It happened once, and I buried the memory. But after that, she was gone. I just wondered if he did something to her. I guess that’s why I’ve always felt that if we retaliated or went to the police he would kill us—make us disappear. I used to dream about her. Have you ever thought about why there are no pictures of her anywhere?”

  “When I first met your father I did, but I never bothered to ask. Selfishly, I liked the idea.”

  “She had long, red hair, chestnut eyes, and freckles. One day I found pieces of pictures in the trash can. I think he burned the rest, but I kept a few.”

  “Keith says she was kidnapped. That’s been his story from the first day I met him.”

  “Right. It’s just a thought. I’m all over the place, Julia. My mother was different. She didn’t grow up with abuse like you did. It was foreign to her. So when my father put his hands on her, she probably took off—without me.”

 

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