Chapter 6
Juliet rubbed her aching temple while fighting not to close her burning eyes. The client seated in her office continued to rant. She'd come bursting through the door about an hour earlier, red in the face and hot under the collar. For twenty minutes, the plump brunette had complained about her lying, conniving, philandering asshole of a husband who'd been cheating for over a year.
This, Juliet reminded herself, is why I am single.
Then she thought of Tristan who would be landing in California in a couple of hours. The sense of loss that flooded her made her want to pick up one of the magazines next to her and lob it at her newest client's head.
She had hardly slept the previous night. Not like the one before that, when she'd slept so deeply she hadn't even been aware of Tristan sharing her bed. Unlike most males, the man didn't snore. She'd learned that much about him back in Mexico. He had put her to bed, made her breakfast, and been so helpful in regard to her personal crisis that Juliet now felt ill-equipped without Tristan at her side.
Sure, she still had Hilary, who was hammering at her keyboard in her corner of the office, following every loose thread Goebel might have left behind. But Hilary didn't make her feel the way Tristan did.
Good thing he's gone, then, Juliet's logic insisted. If he got under your skin in less than a day, imagine what could have happened if he'd stuck around.
"How much do you charge?" the new client asked, breaking into Juliet's private thoughts.
Seizing the chance to wrap up their initial interview, Juliet popped out of her chair and crossed to her file cabinet to pull out some paperwork. "My fees are laid out in this agreement. It'll depend, of course, on how long it takes to prove your husband's infidelity. From everything you've said, he doesn't go to great lengths to hide his indiscretions. It shouldn't take long."
"Good, because I only have five hundred dollars."
"That should cover it," Juliet replied. Like Hilary had said the other day, adultery cases were their bread and butter. She would much rather track down an arsonist or find a missing teenager, but those other jobs didn't come along as often as the former. "Why don't you fill this out and give it to my assistant when you've finished?"
Hilary's ruby head tipped in their direction.
"I need to head out for a while," Juliet said to her. "Let me know if you make any progress on that Goebel case, will you?"
"Sure." Hilary's flat tone intimated she wasn't getting anywhere with her research.
Grabbing her purse, Juliet bid goodbye to her newest client—she'd forgotten the woman's name already—and left the building.
A bright sun stabbed her eyes as she pushed through the door onto the bustling sidewalk. Well-heeled yuppies on their lunch breaks were hotfooting it to the nearest eateries for lunch.
Any other day, Juliet might have joined them. Today, she needed to work out—hard—before she hurt somebody.
Her foul mood, she assured herself, had nothing to do with Tristan taking off. But she imagined him in Carmel, California, mingling with tanned and voluptuous movie stars. Golden Boy—that was the nickname Tristan's teammates had given him. With his movie-star looks, he was one SEAL who would fit right in on the West Coast. She couldn't help but wonder if he might enjoy himself there getting to know the local women. She sure hadn't gone out of her way to show him a good time here.
Why are you jealous?
It made no sense not to want Tristan for herself while seething at the thought of him with someone else. She'd only spent a day with him. He could not have gotten to her in that short a time.
Could he?
* * *
Engrossed in a firsthand, online account of innocent civilians tortured by Dieter Goebel for various offenses against the Republic, Hilary ignored her cell phone as its chime signaled the arrival of a text message. The German citizen's description of how Goebel had chained his victim to the wall in a sewer where rats and vermin had crawled all over him made her shudder. His wasn't the only story of torture at the hands of Dieter Goebel. Hilary's loathing for the former spymaster had risen with every document she'd read.
It struck her as bizarre that this monster had patronized the arts to such a degree he'd kept starving artists from living on the streets.
Her phone chimed a second time, reminding her of the message. Plucking it off her desk, she frowned at the unfamiliar number texting her from the Virginia Beach area code. But the message let her know right away who it was.
Hey, I'm Stuart Rudolph, it said, Tristan's teammate. Right below those words was a picture of a Maine Coon cat, ear tufts and all. It looked big enough to eat a human.
Hilary admired the gorgeous creature, thought for a moment, then typed, I'm Hilary, and appended a picture of her orange and black calico with its big green eyes.
She waited for Stuart Rudolph to make his next move.
After several minutes, he replied. I hear you're looking for Dieter Goebel. I found out something you might want to know.
Right. Like this guy had found something she hadn't. Like what? Hilary texted.
Like the CIA offered him asylum in the U.S.
The ridiculous assertion made her laugh out loud. That's BS, she typed, her thumbs moving at the speed of light. Why would they do that?
He promptly answered. U.S. agents in Russia were disappearing without a trace. CIA knew they had a leak and thought Goebel knew who it was, given he was friendly with Russia. Turned out to be Aldrich Ames. Ring a bell?
Yes, she replied. Ames had been caught, suggesting Goebel might have admitted what he knew in exchange for a prison break and asylum. What's your source? she demanded.
Can't say, came the immediate response.
She frowned at Stuart's reply. So you have access to sources you can't share with me?
Roger that.
His military jargon disarmed her. Guys in the armed services—that was her weakness. For some women, it was chocolate; for others, wine. Not her. She'd been raised a military brat, living on bases all around the world while her father served in the U.S. Army. There was nothing sexier than a buff man in battle dress uniform who talked like G.I. Joe. Or texted like one, in this case.
Brilliant, she typed back. Let's say you're right. Goebel was offered asylum in the U.S., presumably under a false name. He might have had his appearance altered, but why bother since no one knew what he looked like? I don't suppose your source tells us where he went.
Nope. Can't penetrate the Justice Department... yet.
She smirked at his confident qualifier.
Tristan mentioned Goebel was a painter, Stuart tacked on.
She typed her reply. Right, and he signed his original pieces with an emblem used by the Stasi. Tristan had sent her the image the night before, along with an explanation of what it was.
Ding! Stuart sent her the identical image. Tristan must have sent it to him, too.
That's the one, she texted. I'm looking all over the web for it. Managed to track down one of the paintings in Chile, but that's all I've found so far. It's up for sale at an auction house in Santiago.
Need some help? Stuart asked.
Hilary's pride resisted. On the other hand, she was enjoying their text exchange, and the temptation of working with a Navy SEAL to solve a mystery was simply too good to pass up. She deliberated her next step.
Sure, she wrote, but I don't trust anyone I can't see. Next time, Skype me.
He took his sweet time answering. I'll find something before you do.
"Well, aren't you a confident SOB," she murmured. Game on, she texted back.
Putting her phone down, she jumped back online, determined to beat Stuart Rudolph to the prize. Her poor kitty would be starving by the time she got home, but Mitzie could survive for a week on the fat hanging around her midsection. What's more, Hilary would get to charge Juliet for the extra hours, which meant she could afford to indulge in another of her passions—shopping for new clothes.
* * *
Tristan considered the fleet of rental cars available at the airport and narrowed his choice to the small collection of sports cars enlivening the parking garage with their vivid colors—a red Mustang, yellow Camaro, or lime green GTO.
"Can I help you, sir?"
The roar of a plane taking off from the adjacent runway nearly drowned out the attendant's voice.
Under normal circumstances, Tristan would be salivating at the prospect of driving away in any one of the sports cars. However, he had to admit, he was still feeling the sting of Juliet's disinterest in him. It was now 6 p.m. on the east coast and she had yet to call or text, even though he'd left his number. She ought to have more interest in his undertaking since she was the one who'd suggested it.
Obviously, she could not care less where he went or what he did, so long as he left her the hell alone.
"Is the Camaro available?" Driving a vibrant yellow car ought to cheer him up. "I'm a gold cad member." Tristan whipped out his special membership card, one that identified him as a former sponsored driver and got him a sweet new ride wherever he went.
"Yes, of course, Mr.—" the agent glanced down at his card, "—Halliday." When he looked up again, his eyes had doubled in size. "Hey, didn't you used to race Number 33 for NASCAR?"
Pleased to be recognized five years after leaving the circuit, Tristan managed a smile. "That's me."
"It's a pleasure to meet you in person," the attendant avowed, sticking his hand out for Tristan to shake. "No need to fill out any paperwork with the elite member status. I just need to ask you a couple of questions, get your signature, and you'll be on your way."
Tristan's stomach clenched at the reminder. On his way to Carmel to meet his birth mother for the first time. He wasn't sure he was ready to do that—not tonight, anyway.
Ten minutes later, he had programmed his mother's address, supplied by Hilary, into the Camaro's navigation system and was pulling away from Monterey Regional, headed for Highway One. Lowering his windows, he invited the cool air to kiss his face and brighten his somber mood. With a deeply drawn breath, he tried to discern the briny scent of the Pacific Ocean, but he was too far inland to detect it.
California wasn't foreign to him. Like all SEALs, he'd spent the most grueling six months of his life training in Coronado, and he'd been back a time or two for more work-related activities. The terrain and climate this far north were nothing like Coronado, though. Here, low-lying hills undulated in all directions, topped by hardy trees, all cloaked in a thin mist.
He passed an organic fruit farm and the trellises of a vineyard. Prompted by his navigation system, he took a ramp at well over the speed limit and found himself on the coastal highway, still too far inland to glimpse the ocean.
It wasn't until he'd bypassed Monterey and was headed toward Carmel-by-the-Sea that the ocean, with the sun sinking like a fiery disc into its depths, came into view. He thought at once of Juliet and wished she were with him.
Glancing at his silenced cell phone, he noticed that he'd missed a call from her.
"Son of a bitch." He snatched up his cell phone to listen to her message, but there wasn't one.
To his great relief, she texted while his phone was still in his hand. Safe travels. Let me know how it goes.
The tension in his shoulders eased. The scowl on his face relaxed. Juliet had been thinking about him after all. Turning on his ringer, he ignored the impulse to respond and set his phone in the cup holder. Just knowing she'd been thinking of him beat back his despondency.
Up the road ahead of him, he glimpsed the town of Carmel through the trees. Backdropped by the glimmering ocean and the orange sunset, the picturesque view dazzled him. What better time than now to meet his long-lost mother? If they became friends, Juliet could hardly accuse him of still having abandonment issues, could she?
Prompted by the car's navigational system, he exited the highway then wound his way through a trendy neighborhood. Modest, well cared for homes surrounded him. Charmed by their appeal, he relaxed a little more. This meeting was meant to be. Everything would turn out right.
His mother, so young and possibly powerless when she'd given birth, would be thrilled to have him in her life again. Especially since he required nothing from her but acknowledgment.
An apology would be nice, too, but he wasn't expecting one.
"Your destination is on the left. 13 Palou Avenue," said his navigation system.
Tristan braked abruptly and stared at the tiny sage-green house behind the green fence. Fallen leaves were decomposing in the gutters. Blinds covered every window. The brick walk was cracked and filled with weeds. This house didn't look as loved as those surrounding it.
Parking at the curb behind an older-model Neon, Tristan killed the engine and sat a moment. Butterflies swarmed in his stomach. He'd busted down the doors of plenty of insurgents' houses, and, for some reason, this shuttered cottage reminded him of one. Maybe his mother didn't live here anymore. Maybe Hilary had given him the wrong address.
"Let's do this," he said, blowing out a breath and pushing his car door open.
Ten steps along a weed-choked walk convinced him that his mother wasn't home. Three old newspapers littered the front stoop. His mother might have gone to Bali on vacation, or something, and that was the reason she was letting her house go to pot.
Just to make sure she wasn't home, he applied his knuckles to the door and was startled to hear a dog bark. The sound reminded him of how Hilary had tracked down his mother. That must be Dolly barking her head off. Unexpected queasiness gripped his stomach as he strained his ears for the sound of a human occupant.
"Stop that." A female voice scolded the dog scratching at the inside of the door.
The blind at the nearest window crimped, and a woman peeked out.
His mother? Swallowing hard, Tristan wiped his sweating palms on the seat of his jeans and waited.
The door opened a scant three inches, caught by a safety chain. A poodle's snout poked through the opening at knee-height. "Yes?"
Was this his mother? Given the shadows behind her, all he could see were bloodshot eyes set in a haggard face. "Um. I'm looking for Casey Edwards."
Silence followed his announcement. "May I ask why?" the woman asked and, this time, he detected a familiar lilt of his native North Carolina dialect.
Tristan jammed his fingers into his pockets. "Well, I'm... I'm her son," he said, bracing himself for the woman's reaction.
After seconds of shocked silence, the chain scraped, and the door opened wide. The dog rushed out to greet Tristan. The porch light flicked on, spotlighting the woman as she stepped out to join him. "Casey never had a son," she said, but her keen examination of his face suggested she could see the resemblance.
"You're not Casey, are you?" Tristan asked. She looked too old to be his mother, who would still be in her forties.
"I'm her sister, Margot."
"Oh. I'm sorry. I thought Casey lived here."
Margot froze, and the lines on her face deepened. "She did live here. I came to... take her dog and pack up her stuff."
Tristan tried to read between the lines. "You mean, she moved?"
The woman—his aunt, he realized—shook her head and pressed her lips together in a bid to retain her composure. "No, hon. She passed, 'bout two weeks ago."
The word passed tore through Tristan like a bullet fired at close range. "As in died? From what?"
"Overdose," Margot said after a moment's hesitation. Her moist gaze registered his shock with compassion. "I'm sorry," she added.
The stoop under Tristan's feet seemed to tip. "I'm too late," he realized out loud. Now he'd never get to meet his birth mother, and she would never get to know him—a reunion that might have turned her life around. Apparently, she'd struggled with addiction. Maybe she'd turned to drugs after giving him away. Maybe...
Margot laid a tentative hand on his arm. "Why don't you come inside?" she offered kindly. "I found something of Casey's I think you should see."
Feeling numb all over, he followed his aunt inside.