Every Precious Thing (A Logan Harper Thriller) Page 4

  “A quick trip to celebrate,” she’d suggested. She smiled, though inside she’d never felt more horrible. “Just the two of us, in San Diego.” She had already arranged for Rachel to watch Emily, and though she knew her husband had work he’d been planning on doing that weekend, she’d convinced him to go.

  But even rushing things, had it been too late? If yes, she didn’t know what she’d do. The pain would be…unbearable.

  Outside everything suddenly glowed white. She didn’t see where the lightning struck, but it was close. She barely blinked when the house rattled with an explosion of thunder.

  She didn’t even know she was yelling until the noise in the sky began to die. Without a doubt, that was the closest she’d come to being hit since she’d arrived.

  Putting her hands over her head, she curled into a ball.

  All she could think about was the nightmare outside.

  Terrifying and nerve-fraying.

  And freeing.

  If only for a little while.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I CAN’T TELL you how much I appreciate this,” Callie said over the phone. “Anything you need, just let me know and I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’d like to talk to that PI you hired,” Logan told her. He was sitting in the El Camino in the parking lot of the University Place Inn. Harp and Barney were in the office arranging rooms for the night.

  “Absolutely. Let me give him a call and see when I can get you in.”

  “Thanks.”

  Three minutes later, Logan’s two traveling mates walked back outside. Instead of getting in, Barney headed down the walkway along the three-story motel, while Harp walked around to the driver’s window of the El Camino, motioning for Logan to roll it down.

  “We’re on the first floor near the back. One twenty-three and one twenty-four,” Harp said. He handed one of the keys through the window, then headed off after his WAMO buddy.

  As soon as Logan was parked in front of the rooms, they all got their bags out of the back and split up. Logan’s room was a balmy eight-two degrees, so he fiddled with the thermostat until the air conditioner clicked on. The temperature was just starting to get bearable when his phone rang.

  “Fulkerson said he’d see you whenever you could get to his office,” Callie told him.

  “Hold on.” Logan searched for paper and a pen, finding them in the nightstand drawer. “All right. What’s his address?”

  She gave it to him. “Call me if you need anything else. Whatever it is, I’ll make it happen.”

  When Logan stopped by Harp and Barney’s room on the way out, his dad, of course, wanted to come along, but Logan told him it would be easier if he saw Joe Fulkerson on his own.

  As he was starting up his car, Harp rushed out of his room.

  Logan leaned through his open window. “Dad, I promise I’ll tell you everything when I get back.”

  “What?” Harp said, confused.

  “I need to do this alone.”

  “You already made that clear. I just…I just forgot something.”

  Now it was Logan’s turn to be confused.

  Harp pointed toward the passenger side of the truck. Sitting on the bench seat was the padded envelope Callie had given Harp back in Sausalito. Logan could see the copy of Lost Horizon sitting just inside it. He picked up the package and passed it to his dad.

  “Thank you,” Harp said, clutching it with one arm against his torso.

  Logan could see a million thoughts and emotions racing through his father’s eyes. He wished he knew the right thing to say, something that would get his father to open up and talk, but he was afraid anything he might try would cause Harp to clam up completely.

  So Logan simply smiled and said, “No problem.”

  __________

  JOE FULKERSON’S OFFICE was in an old, brown, brick building several miles from the university. The sign on the door said FNR Investigations, and it appeared to take up half of the fourth floor.

  Logan waited in the lobby for less than two minutes before an older Latina led him into the inner workings of FNR. The few single offices he saw were along the outside walls, taking up prime window territory. Most of the employees, though, seemed to work in a large bullpen area of high walled cubicles.

  Fulkerson was not in a cubicle. He had a corner office that looked toward the smog-hidden mountains. His desk was an old metal monstrosity that seemed out of place with the rest of the furnishings. Joe was sitting behind the desk, squinting at a computer monitor. He was a thin, middle-aged man who’d buzzed what little hair he had left on his head as close to his skin as he could without shaving it off. It was what Joaquin back at Dunn Right liked to call the full Captain Picard.

  “Mr. Fulkerson?” the woman said. “This is Mr. Harper.”

  Fulkerson immediately rose from his chair, a large smile appearing on his face. With unnecessary enthusiasm, he came around the desk and extended his hand.

  “Mr. Harper. Thanks for coming down.”

  They shook.

  “You can call me Logan.”

  “And I’m Joe.” Fulkerson glanced at the woman. “Thank you, Mary.”

  She smiled and left.

  Fulkerson motioned toward the guest chair in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.” Once they were both settled, he said, “Would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  They looked at each other for a moment, then Fulkerson leaned forward. “So Mrs. Johnson says you have some questions?”

  “Yes, about the Lindley case,” Logan said.

  “Right.” Fulkerson looked at his computer screen, moved the mouse, and clicked a few keys on the keyboard. “What can I help you with?”

  “First off, I would love to take a look at the report.”

  Fulkerson’s smile turned stale. “I believe Mrs. Johnson has copies of that at her office.”

  “She probably does,” Logan agreed. “”But I’m not at her office, I’m here. And she said you’d be happy to help me.”

  The private detective was having a hard time holding on to what was left of his smile.

  “Is it a problem?” Logan asked.

  “Of course not.” He picked up his phone and punched in a number. “Mary? Can you print out a copy of the Lindley file and bring it in here, please?” After he hung up, he stood. “I’ll walk you out to the lobby. My secretary will bring you the report as soon as she’s done.”

  Remaining in his seat, Logan said, “Actually, I have a few questions I’d like to ask.”

  “Like what?”

  Logan eyed him for several seconds. “Sit down, Mr. Fulkerson. I’m not here to assess your performance or take work from you or anything like that. I’ve been asked to provide Alan Lindley with some help, and that’s all I’m trying to do.”

  With reluctance, Fulkerson lowered himself back into his chair. “If Mrs. Johnson requires more help on the Lindley case, my agency is fully capable of providing that.”

  Logan almost laughed. “I’m betting your agency does a lot of business with Mrs. Johnson’s firm. Is that right?”

  “The relationship between our companies is none of your business,” Fulkerson said, but the narrowing of the man’s eyes told Logan he’d been right.

  “I don’t give a damn about the relationship. I have nothing to do with it. And just so we’re clear, I haven’t been hired for anything. I’ve been asked to help. That’s it.”

  “Right. You do this job gratis, and then use that to leverage yourself into more work. I’ve seen people do that a million times. Go ahead and try, but don’t expect me to assist.”

  “Fair enough.” Logan retrieved his phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just give me a second.” He found the number he was looking for and placed the call. As soon as it was answered, he said, “Callie? It’s Logan.”

  Fulkerson tensed a little at the use of Callie’s first name.

  “How
did the meeting go?” she asked.

  “I’m actually sitting here with Joe right now.”

  “Joe? He must really hate you.”

  “That seems to be my take. Mind if I put you on speaker?”

  “Not at all.”

  Logan activated the speaker function as he set the phone on the desk. “Are you still there?”

  “I’m here,” she said, her voice coming out clearly.

  “Hello, Mrs. Johnson,” Fulkerson said. “I think there might be some kind of misunderstand—”

  “Let me fill her in first,” Logan jumped in. “You can correct anything I get wrong. Callie, I’m calling because we have a little problem you might be able to help with. Joe here seems to think I’m angling to take future work you might otherwise send his way. Is that right, Joe?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d put it that way,” Fulkerson stammered.

  “It’s how you just put it to me. Anyway, I tried telling him I have no interest in taking work from him, but he doesn’t seem to believe me. And, because of that, he’s, well, reluctant to provide additional help.”

  Callie said, “Is that right, Mr. Fulkerson?”

  “Mrs. Johnson, your firm and FNR have had a very close working relationship for several years. I would hate to see anything damage it.”

  “Good,” Callie said. “Then you’ll give Mr. Harper whatever help he needs. Mr. Harper is not now, nor will he ever be interested in taking over any of the work you do for us. Mr. Harper is strictly a specialist I’ve brought in on this. You will treat him with the same respect you would treat me. If you do not, then the relationship you are so worried about will indeed be in trouble. Is that understood?”

  “Of course,” Fulkerson said, looking uncomfortable. “Like I said, it was simply a misunderstanding. Of course I’ll give Mr. Harper whatever help he requests.”

  “That’s any help, Mr. Fulkerson. If you incur any cost, just forward them directly to me.”

  “I completely understand.” The mention of potential revenue brightened his demeanor considerably.

  “Are we finished here?” she asked.

  Logan looked at Fulkerson, who nodded.

  “Yep,” Logan said. “That about covers it.”

  “Just call if you need anything else.”

  “Will do, Callie. Thanks.” He disconnected the call, and looked at the detective. “So we’re good?”

  “Yes.” Fulkerson still wore some of his earlier resentment, but he’d obviously gotten the message.

  “Excellent. How did you determine Sara Lindley wasn’t who she said she was?”

  “All that’s in the report.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Logan said, waiting.

  Fulkerson sucked in a breath, and blew it out through his teeth. “Various ways. First we checked the background she’d given her husband, but could find no trace of her prior to when she’d moved to Riverside. Then we checked with the management company that runs the apartment building she was living in when she and Mr. Lindley met. From them we were able to get a copy of her rental application, which, we’d been told, had been thoroughly checked and approved. None of the previous addresses or jobs she listed actually exist, but since they were back east—”

  “Philadelphia?”

  Fulkerson gave Logan an obligatory smile. “Right. Because of that, the management company relied strictly on phone calls. Turns out all the phone numbers she listed were for disposable phones you can pick up at any convenience store.”

  “Let me guess,” Logan said. “None of them are active anymore.”

  “Not a single one.”

  “Did you check the addresses?”

  “Mr. Harper, we do know how to do our job. Of course we checked them. In fact we went so far as to hire an investigator in Philadelphia to visit each location. The addresses themselves existed, but the businesses they were supposed to represent never did.”

  That was consistent with what was already clear—whoever Sara Lindley really was, she didn’t want anyone to find out. “What else?”

  “Driver’s license, fake. Social Security number, valid, but was actually issued to a woman killed in a car accident overseas three years ago. The Social Security Administration doesn’t even know that yet.”

  The door to the office opened and Mary reentered. She set a gray, nine-by-twelve-inch envelope on Fulkerson’s desk, and retreated without saying a word.

  “Your copy of the report,” Fulkerson said, nodding to the envelope.

  Logan grabbed it and pulled out the sheaf of about two dozen pages, stapled together in the upper corner. The top sheet was an assignment report, detailing the information Callie had given FNR. Logan flipped to the next page.

  “Are you going to read that now?” Fulkerson asked. “Mrs. Johnson’s firm isn’t my only client. I do have other things that need my attention.”

  Logan was tempted to meticulously go over every page, but the only thing that would accomplish was pissing off Fulkerson again. As satisfying as that might be, it would only make things more difficult. He did a quick thumb-through of the pages, stopping only on the summary of potential leads near the back.

  “Did you follow up on any of these?” he asked.

  “Any of what?”

  Logan turned the report around and pointed at the list of five items. Three were derived from information they’d gathered from Alan, no more than offhand comments or feelings—Sara’s desire to go to San Francisco, her interest in art, and something she’d said once about the Midwest that made Alan think she’d spent considerable time there at some point. The other two were based on mobile phone records, calls Sara had made to Alan that were pinpointed to cell towers nowhere near Riverside. One was in the Laguna Beach area, while the other was at the far side of the state, in Braden near the border with Arizona. A follow-up conversation with Alan revealed he had no knowledge of these trips.

  Fulkerson leaned forward so he could read the summary better. “Yes, of course we did. We had people looking out for her in San Francisco, but at the time the investigation was called off, we’d had no sign of her. As for her interest in art, I’m sure you can imagine how ambiguous that is. Short of putting someone in all the museums and art galleries on the West Coast, there was little we could do on that front. And a similar thing can be said about the potential Midwest connection.”

  Logan had figured as much about all three. He was more interested in the phone calls. “And these?”

  Fulkerson nodded. “We sent investigators to both places. Out of the two, Laguna seemed the most promising. There’s a thriving art community there, so it also checks that box.”

  “And?”

  “And we found nothing at either place.”

  “How long were your investigators there?”

  “Long enough.”

  “How long?”

  “A day at Laguna. A couple of hours at Braden.”

  “Why only a couple hours?”

  “It’s a small town, and chances were she was just passing through on the interstate, perhaps stopped to get some gas.”

  “On her way to where?”

  “That, we have no way of knowing. If she hadn’t made that call, we wouldn’t have even known she’d gone out that way.”

  “Doesn’t seem to me like enough time spent in either place.”

  Logan could sense Fulkerson trying not to glare at him. “You’ll have to take that up with Mrs. Johnson.”

  “Why is that?”

  “We recalled our people because she decided to put the investigation on hold.”

  Emily again, Logan realized. Either Callie or Alan had begun to worry that the more Fulkerson and his team looked into things, the more likely word would get to the wrong people that the adoption wasn’t legitimate.

  He glanced through the rest of the report, but didn’t see anything that needed clarification at the moment, so he smiled and stood up. “Thank you for your time. I’ll call you if I need anything else.”

  Th
e look on Fulkerson’s face was not what Logan would call excited.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LOGAN FOUND A Starbucks, grabbed a cup of coffee, took the only empty table left, and then carefully went through Fulkerson’s detailed report. By the time he was done, his barely touched coffee was lukewarm.

  While the notes on the investigation filled out a few things he was hazy on, it had provided no new information. What it did do was make Logan think more about the out-of-character phone calls Sara had placed from Laguna Beach and Braden. They were the only halfway decent leads. But were either of them important?

  The only way to know for sure was to check both places, and given the distance between them, it would go a lot faster if he had help. While Harp and Barney might be able to assist Logan wherever he went, he was not about to send them off on their own.

  He considered his options, then pulled out his phone.

  “Yes?” a gruff voice answered after a single ring.

  “Dev? It’s Logan Harper.”

  “Logan,” Dev Martin said, brightening. “How ya doin’?”

  “I’m okay. You?”

  “I got nothing to complain about.”

  Like Logan and Harp, Dev Martin also lived in Cambria. He was in his sixties, but looked at least ten years younger. A former Marine and Vietnam vet, he’d kept himself in great shape. There were few people, no matter their age, who’d want to mess with him. Dev and his network of former servicemen had proved extremely useful when Logan was looking for Tooney’s granddaughter, Elyse.

  “Good to hear.” Logan paused. “Let me cut right to it. I’m wondering if you might be able to help me out with something.”

  Dev let out a low laugh. “Didn’t think this was just a social call.”

  Logan explained the situation and what he needed.

  “Braden or Laguna Beach, huh?” Dev said. “Let me make a call, and I’ll get right back to you.”

  “Thanks, Dev.”

  “No worries.”

  Less than five minutes later, Dev called back. “Chris Pepper,” he said. “Goes by Pep. He was Navy, but don’t hold that against him. Lives in Victorville, so could be in Braden in a couple of hours.”