Private Scandals Read online

  “I had to take Kelsey to the pediatrician for her checkup. I wasn’t here. I wasn’t even here.”

  “You couldn’t have changed anything.”

  “I might have.” She shoved away, eyes fierce now. “How did he get to her? I’ve heard a dozen different stories.”

  “This is the place for them. Truth or accuracy, which do you want?”

  “Both.”

  “One’s not the same as the other, Fran. You’ve been in the game long enough. Accurately, we don’t know. She left early, went out to the lot where her car and driver were supposed to be waiting. Now she’s gone. Her driver seems to have vanished into thin air.”

  She didn’t like the cool control of his voice or the workaday hum of his computer. “Then what’s the truth, Finn? Why don’t you tell me what the truth is?”

  “The truth is that whoever has been sending her those notes, whoever killed Lew McNeil, Angela and Pike, has Deanna. They’ve got an APB out on her, and one on O’Malley and the car.”

  “Tim wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”

  “Why?” The single word was like a bullet. “Because you know him? Because he’s part of Deanna’s extended family? Fuck that. He could have.” Finn sat down, drained half his coffee. The shock of caffeine and whiskey spread through him like velvet lightning. “But I don’t think he did. I can’t be sure until he turns up. If he turns up.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Fran demanded. “He’s worked for Dee for two years. He’s never missed a single day.”

  “He’s never been dead before, has he?” He swore at her, at himself when her color faded to paste. Rising, he poured her whiskey, straight. “I’m sorry, Fran. I’m half out of my mind.”

  “How can you sit in here and say things like that? How can you work, think about work, when Dee’s out there somewhere? This isn’t some international disaster you’re covering, goddamn it, where you’re the steady, unflappable journalist. This is Dee.”

  He jammed useless hands in his pockets. “When something’s important, vital, when the answer means everything, you sit, you work, you think it through, you take all the facts and create a scenario that plays. Something that’s accurate. I think Jeff’s got her.”

  “Jeff.” Fran choked on whiskey. “You’re crazy. Jeff’s devoted to Dee, and he’s harmless as a baby. He’d never hurt her.”

  “I’m counting on that,” he said dully. “I’m betting my life on it. I need everything you’ve got on him, Fran. Personnel records, memos, files. I need your impressions, your observations. I need you to help me.”

  She said nothing, only studied his face. No, his eyes weren’t cold, she realized. They were burning up. And there was terror behind them. “Give me ten minutes,” she said, and left him alone.

  She came back in less than her allotted time with a stack of files and a box of computer disks. “His employment record, résumé, application for employment. Tax info.” Fran smiled weakly. “I lifted his desk calendars. He keeps them from year to year. They were all filed.”

  Meticulous. Obsessive. Though his blood iced, Finn accessed the first disk.

  “That’s his personnel file from CBC. I hope you don’t mind breaking the law.”

  “Not a bit. This application is from April eighty-nine. When did Dee go on air at CBC?”

  “About a month before that.” Fran reached for the whiskey to unclog her throat. “It doesn’t prove anything.”

  “No, but it’s a fact.” The first he could build on. “Same address he’s got now. How’d he afford a house like that when he’d been working as a radio gofer?”

  “He inherited it. His uncle left it to him. Finn, I had to call Dee’s family.” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “They’re getting the first flight out in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry.” He stared hard at the screen. Families. He’d never had one to worry about before. “I should have done it.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. I just—I don’t know what to say to them.”

  “Tell them we’re going to get her back. That’s the truth. Fran, see if you can find the date in his calendar when Lew McNeil was killed. It was February ninety-two.”

  “Yeah, I remember.” She opened the book, flipped through the pages, skimming Jeff’s neat, precise notations. “We had a show that day. Jeff was directing. I remember because we had snow and everybody was worried that the audience would be thin.”

  “Do you remember if he came in?”

  “Sure, he was here. He never missed. Looks like he had a ten o’clock meeting with Simon.”

  “He’d have had time,” Finn murmured.

  “Christ Almighty, do you really think he could have gone to New York, shot Lew, come back and waltzed into the studio to direct a show, all before lunch?”

  Yes, Finn thought coldly. Oh yes, he did. “Fact: Lew was killed about seven—that’s Central time. There’s an hour’s time difference between Chicago and New York. Speculation: He flies in and out, maybe he charters a plane. I need his receipts.”

  “He doesn’t keep his personal stuff here.”

  “Then I’ll have to get back in his house. You make sure he comes in tomorrow morning. And you make sure he stays.”

  She got up, poured coffee into her whiskey. “All right. What else?”

  “Let’s see what else we can find.”

  She’d lost track of time. Day or night, there was no difference in the claustrophobic world Jeff had created for her. Her head was cotton from the drug, her stomach raw, but she ate the breakfast he’d left for her. She didn’t open the plain white envelope he’d left on her tray.

  For a timeless, sweaty interlude, she tried to find an opening in the wall, had pried and poked with a spoon until her fingers had cramped uselessly. All she’d accomplished was to mar the pristine wallpaper.

  She couldn’t be sure if he was gone, or how long she’d been alone. Then she remembered the television and jumped like a cat on the remote.

  Still morning, she thought, her eyes filming with tears as she scanned the channels. How easy it was to time your life around the familiar schedule of daytime TV. The bright laughter of a familiar game show was both mocking and soothing.

  She’d slept through her own show, she realized, and choked back a bitter laugh.

  Where was Finn? What was he doing? Where was he looking for her?

  She rose mechanically, walked into the bathroom. Though she’d already checked once, she repeated the routine of standing on the lip of the tub, climbing onto the lid of the toilet and searching for hidden cameras.

  She had no choice but to trust Jeff that he wouldn’t pry in this room. She slid the door closed, tried not to think about the lack of a lock. And she stripped.

  She had to bite back the fear that he would come in when she was most vulnerable. She needed the cold, bracing spray to help clear her mind. She scrubbed hard, letting her thoughts focus as she soaped and rinsed, soaped and rinsed.

  He hadn’t missed a detail, she thought. Her brand of shampoo, of powder, creams. She used them all, finding some comfort in the daily routine. Wrapped in a bath sheet, she walked back into the bedroom to go through the drawers.

  She chose a sweater, trousers. Just the sort of outfit she would pick for a day of relaxing at home. Ignoring the fresh shudder, she carried the outfit, and the lacy underwear he’d provided, into the bathroom.

  Dressed, she began to pace. Pacing, she began to plan.

  Finn parked his car half a block down, then backtracked on foot. He walked straight to Jeff Hyatt’s front door. He didn’t bother to knock. Since he’d just hung up his car phone with Fran, he knew Jeff was in the office.

  Finn had the extra set of keys Fran had taken from Jeff’s bottom desk drawer. There were three locks. A lot of security, he mused, for a quiet neighborhood. He unbolted all three and, once inside, took the precaution of locking up again.

  He started upstairs first, clamping down on the urge to dive wildly into desk and files. Instead he searched meticulou
sly, going through each drawer, each paper with his reporter’s eye keen for any tiny detail. He wanted a receipt, some proof that Jeff had traveled to New York and back on the day of Lew’s murder.

  The police might overlook his reporter’s instinct, but they wouldn’t overlook facts. Once they had Jeff in custody, they would sweat out of him Deanna’s whereabouts. He kept his eyes open, too, for some proof that Jeff had another house, a room, an apartment. He might be holding her there.

  He wouldn’t believe she was dead.

  The pattern so far was to kill people in public places.

  He shut the last drawer of the desk and moved to the files.

  By the time he’d finished, his palms were damp. Biting back the taste of despair, he strode from the office into Jeff’s bedroom. He’d found nothing, absolutely nothing except proof that Jeff Hyatt was an organized, dedicated employee who lived quietly and well, almost too well, within his means.

  While Finn searched the bedroom, Deanna paced the floor beneath him. She knew she would have only one chance, and that failure would be more than risky. It might be fatal.

  In the room above, Finn scanned row after row of videotapes. The man was beyond a buff, Finn mused. He was fanatical. The neat labels indicated television series, movies, news events. Over a hundred black cases lined the wall beside the television. Finn juggled the remote in his hand, deciding if he had time after searching the house, he’d screen a few to see if there was anything more personal on tape.

  He set the remote down, only a push of a button away from bringing Deanna to life on screen. He turned to the closet.

  The scent of mothballs, an old woman’s odor, tickled his nostrils. Slacks hung straight and true, jackets graced padded hangers. The shoes were stretched on trees. The photo album he found on the shelf revealed nothing but snapshots of an elderly man, sometimes alone, sometimes with Jeff beside him. His jaw seemed permanently clenched, his lips withered to a scowl. Beneath each shot was a careful notation.

  Uncle Matthew on 75th birthday. June 1983. Uncle Matthew and Jeff, Easter 1977. Uncle Matthew, November 1988.

  There was no one else in the book. Just a man, young, a little thin, and his hard-faced uncle. Never a young girl or a laughing child, a romping pet.

  The book felt unhealthy, diseased, in his hand. Finn slid it back on the shelf, careful to align the edges.

  Details, he thought grimly. Two could play.

  Underwear was tucked into the top dresser drawer. All snowy white boxers, pressed and folded. There was nothing beneath them but plain white paper, lightly scented with lilac.

  It was almost worse than the mothballs, Finn thought, and moved down to the next drawer.

  None of the usual hiding places was utilized. He found no papers, no packets taped to the undersides or backs of drawers, no valuables tucked into the toes of shoes. The nightstand drawer held a current TV Guide with selected programs highlighted in yellow. A pad and a sharpened pencil and an extra handkerchief joined it.

  He’d been in the house for nearly an hour when he hit pay dirt. The diary was under the pillow. It was leather-bound, glossy and locked. Finn was reaching in his pocket for his penknife when he heard the rattle of a key in the lock.

  “Goddamn it, Fran.” He glanced back at the closet, rejecting it instantly not only as a cliché, but also as a humiliating one. He’d rather face a foe than hide from one. He stepped forward toward the bedroom door just as Jeff walked down the hallway, whistling on his way to the kitchen.

  “Don’t seem too devastated, do you? You son of a bitch.” Muttering under his breath, Finn slipped toward the stairs.

  He couldn’t wait to see her. Jeff knew he was taking a chance leaving the office when Fran was so insistent that he stay. But he’d slipped out, antsy to get home. To get to Deanna. The office was in an uproar, he thought. No one could work, and he could always claim to have needed to be alone. Nobody would blame him.

  He poured a glass of milk, arranged fancy tea cookies on a china plate and put them all on a tray with another single rose.

  She’d be rested now, he was certain. She’d be feeling better, more at home. And soon, very soon, she would see how well he could care for her.

  Finn waited at the top of the stairs. He heard Jeff whistling and the sound of dishes ringing together. He heard the footsteps, a quiet click, followed moments later by another.

  Then he heard nothing at all.

  Where did the bastard go? he wondered. Moving quietly, he descended the stairs. He slipped like a shadow from room to room. By the time he reached the kitchen, he was baffled. He saw the bakery box of cookies, caught the candy scent of icing. But the man had vanished like smoke.

  “You look wonderful.” Secure in the soundproofed room, Jeff smiled shyly at Deanna. “Do you like the clothes?”

  “They’re very nice.” She willed herself to smile back. “I took a shower. I can’t believe you went to all the trouble to pick out all my favorite brands.”

  “You saw the towels? I had them monogrammed with your initials.”

  “I know.” Her stomach rolled. “It was very sweet of you, Jeff. Cookies?”

  “They’re the ones you like best.”

  “Yes, they are.” Watching him, she walked over, fighting not to grit her teeth. She kept her eyes on his as she chose a cookie, bit in delicately. “Wonderful.” She saw his gaze lower to her mouth as she licked at a crumb. “You were gone a long time.”

  “I came back as soon as I could. I’m going to turn in my resignation next week. I have plenty of money put away, and my uncle invested. I won’t have to leave you again.”

  “It’s lonely here. By myself.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “You’ll stay with me now, won’t you?”

  “As long as you want.”

  “Sit with me.” In a subtle invitation, she touched the bed beside her. “I think if you explain things to me now, I’d be ready to understand.”

  His hands trembled as he set the tray down. “You’re not angry?”

  “No. I’m still a little scared. It frightens me to be locked in here.”

  “I’m sorry.” He eased down beside her, careful to keep an inch of space between them. “One day it’ll be different.”

  “Jeff.” She made contact by laying her hand over his. “Why did you decide to do this? How did you know this was the time?”

  “I knew it had to be soon, before the wedding. When I came in yesterday and saw you in your wedding dress—I couldn’t wait any longer. It was like a sign. You were so beautiful, Dee.”

  “But it was a terrible risk. Tim was downstairs waiting.”

  “It was me. I was waiting. I used his hat and his coat, the sunglasses. I had to get Tim out of the way.”

  “How?” When he looked down, staring at their joined hands, her heart dropped. “Jeff. Is Tim dead?”

  “I didn’t do it the way I did the others.” Eager, anxious, he looked back at her, his eyes as hopeful as a child’s. “I wouldn’t have done that. Tim didn’t hurt you. But I had to get him out of the way, and fast. I liked him, too, really. So I was real quick. He didn’t suffer. I put him in the trunk of the car after—and then when I’d brought you here, I drove the car to a parking lot downtown. I left it there and I came home. To be with you.” His face crumbled when she turned hers away. “You’ve got to understand, Deanna.”

  “I’m trying to.” Oh, God. Tim. “You haven’t hurt Finn?”

  “I promised I wouldn’t. He’s had you all this time, and I’ve been waiting.”

  “I know. I know.” Instinctively she soothed. “They’re looking for me, aren’t they?”

  “They won’t find you.”

  “But they’re looking.”

  “Yes!” His voice rose as he pushed off the bed. Everything had gone perfectly up till now, he reminded himself. Perfectly. But he felt as though he were standing on the edge of a cliff, and couldn’t see the bottom. “And they’ll look and look. And then they’ll stop. And nobody will bother
us. Nobody.”

  “It’s all right.” She rose, too, though her legs trembled. “You know how curious I am about everything. Always asking questions.”

  “You won’t miss being on television, Dee.” He used his sleeve to wipe a tear away. “I’m your best audience. I could listen to you for hours and hours. I do. But now I won’t have to watch a tape. Now it can be real.”