Dead Right (Stillwater Trilogy #3)(4)
Author: Brenda Novak

Madeline turned to her car. The police always said they’d keep digging, keep asking questions, go back through the files, whatever. But they never found anything solid. They didn’t really care about the truth. They just wanted to pin it on the Montgomerys to satisfy the Vincellis, who held political power in this town. Maybe Pontiff was a friend of sorts, but he was subject to the same political pressures as his predecessors and would probably follow in their footsteps. Nothing would change.

But Madeline couldn’t accept “nothing” any longer. She had to take more aggressive action, do something that would finally provide answers.

She was pretty sure what that something had to be. But her stepfamily wouldn’t like it. And there was no guarantee it’d work.

Chapter Two

Madeline longed to call Kirk. She hadn’t talked to him since they’d broken up. But allowing herself to do what was comfortable and convenient would only land her in the same old rut. She and Kirk had no real hope of long-term happiness together. She wanted children; he was adamantly opposed to them. He wanted to leave Stillwater, travel the world; she wanted to stay close to her family and maintain her home and business. It was better to let go and move on, better for both of them.

Maybe she was doing the right thing. But life was damn lonely in the meantime. Especially since she hadn’t gone to her office today. Although she had no staff, just three people who earned a little extra money delivering papers for her once a week, the small office she leased for The Stillwater Independent was located on Main Street and a lot of people dropped in on her. She usually enjoyed the company—a journalist had to stay connected to the community. Today, however, she hadn’t wanted to face the questions, the sympathy, the reaction that recovering the Cadillac would evoke.

Feeling guilty for hiding out, she scooped up her cat and rubbed her chin on Sophie’s fur. If it hadn’t been her own father who’d gone missing, she would already have produced an article on the incident at the quarry, slapped it on the front page and given it a huge headline: Reverend’s Car Found. But she was too close to the story, and after the flurry of activity following the drowning of Rachel Simmons—the search, the funeral, the outpouring of sympathy for the family—she was emotionally exhausted.

She couldn’t write about what she’d been through this morning. Not yet. She hadn’t done much of anything today except scour the Internet for someone who might be able to help her, and pace.

Putting Sophie down, she took her mother’s old quilt from the couch where she’d been curled up a few minutes earlier, wrapped it around her shoulders and crossed to the window. It was getting late. And it was still raining.

God, she was tired of the constant drizzle, tired of the cold. The steady drumming against the roof made her feel hollow. And everything looked soggy and beaten down and smelled of mold.

She glanced at her car keys, lying on the antique secretary by the door. Maybe she should go out, visit her family. But the soft chime of the clock in the hall told her it was far too late. She didn’t want to go to the farm where Clay and Allie lived, anyway. She’d grown up there and wouldn’t be able to return without thinking of her father.

Images of her parents’ Cadillac, rusty and encrusted with dirt, once again flitted through Madeline’s mind.

She pressed her palms to her eyes, but she could still see Pontiff holding up her father’s camera. She also heard the squeak of the metal, the splash of the water that had poured out of the open door and the echo of Chief Pontiff’s voice when he’d said, “That’s it.”

Heading to the small desk in her old-fashioned kitchen, she picked up the listing of private investigators she’d printed off from the Internet. She’d called several of them earlier but had been disappointed by their responses. They were too busy. They wouldn’t be able to come to Stillwater to do the necessary research. They specialized in lost children or cheating husbands.

However, a few had recommended a man named Hunter Solozano. They said he could find anyone or anything and often accepted unusual jobs for the challenge. But when she’d called the number they’d given her, his voice mail had indicated there was no room for new messages.

Swallowing a sigh, she picked up the handset and tried Mr. Solozano again. It was past midnight, but she didn’t care. Surely it was an office phone, which meant it wouldn’t matter. Maybe she’d finally be able to leave a message so she could feel as if there was some hope.

She’d expected at least three rings—so she jerked upright when a deep voice answered almost immediately.

“Damn it, Antoinette, you’ve already got your pound of flesh!”

Madeline stiffened in surprise. “And if this isn’t Antoinette?” she ventured.

There was a moment of startled silence. “That depends,” he drawled, smoothly recovering. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“That also depends,” she replied. “Are you Hunter Solozano?”

“Yes.”

“And are you as good as they say?” she asked eagerly.

He chuckled. “Better. Particularly if you’re talking about sex.”

Thanks to her preoccupation, she’d walked right into that one. Embarrassed and annoyed, she cleared her throat. “I’m talking about your professional skills.”

“So this is a business call.”

“Yes.”

“At ten-thirty at night.”

His time. She’d wondered about the area code. Fortunately, he lived to the west of her and not the east or he’d have a lot more reason to complain. “You sound like you’re awake to me,” she said hesitantly, tapping a pencil on the desk.

“Thanks to you and my ex-wife.” His voice dropped meaningfully. “In case you haven’t guessed, that doesn’t put you in very good company.”

A touch of defensiveness made Madeline rub her furrowed brow. “I assumed I was calling an office number.”

“That means you weren’t expecting a response. Great. This can wait until morning, then.”

“No!” she cried before he could disconnect.

The fact that she didn’t hear a click encouraged her. “You weren’t picking up earlier. And your voice mail was full.”

He didn’t make any excuses. Neither did he promise her she’d be able to reach him later. So she kept talking, trying to keep him on the line until she had a better chance of enlisting his help. “How was I supposed to know I’d been given your home number?”