Shadows Of Truth

She was so used to being invisible that she didn’t even look twice when a man came out of one of the rooms and approached her. His steps slowed, and she looked up.

Micah McLeod, his dark-brown eyes steady on her.

Her heart gave a familiar lurch—it always did when she saw him. She didn’t want to notice that he looked good, but he did. He wore jeans, a Western-style shirt, cowboy boots and a Stetson with the ease of a man who had grown up in the clothes rather than adopting them like some packaged country-music singer. She knew under his hat was a full head of hair, the dark strands liberally streaked with gray.

She forced herself to look away and wished he would walk right past her, somehow knowing that he wouldn’t. He came to a halt next to her cart, blocking her way back into the room she was cleaning.

“What in the world are you doing here?” he asked.

“Working.” She stuffed the linens she had just stripped off a bed into the hamper at the bottom of the cart.

“Working,” he repeated. “Why?”

A sharp retort was at the tip of her tongue when she noticed one of the hotel managers at the end of the hall. Jason Laird, a young man fresh out of college. His pretentious attitude grated more often than not, and he had made it clear maids were to be seen and not heard.

“For the usual reasons,” she said managing to keep annoyance out of her voice as Jason came closer. “Is there something you need?”

“Not anything you can give me here.” Micah turned around to see who she was watching.

“Good morning, sir,” Jason said to Micah. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” he responded.

“Enjoy your stay.” Jason raised an eyebrow at her and cocked his head toward the room she was cleaning, his unspoken message as clear as a command. Get back to work.

Rachel pulled clean sheets from her cart while Micah stood there watching her as though she were some exotic species he was studying in a zoo. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said as she brushed past him.

He followed her into the room. “If you’re going to work in a hotel, why not turn your house into a bed-and-breakfast like you once talked about?”

The suggestion frayed her temper. How could he know so much about her hopes and dreams when she had clearly known nothing about his? Once he had told her about a ranch in Wyoming, his description of a home so vivid she had imagined living there. Like everything else last spring, that had most likely been a lie, too.

She snapped a clean sheet open and it floated across the mattress. Efficiently, she tucked the sheet around the mattress and did her best to ignore Micah’s large presence.

He simply stood there, waiting with the patience that was so much a part of him. She finished making the bed and did a visual scan of the room to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. All that was left was to vacuum.

When she retrieved the vacuum cleaner from the hallway, he blocked her way back into the room.

“Rachel, talk to me. Why are you working here?”

“Because I need the job.”

He moved to the side so she could enter the room, then followed her. “This is the best job you could get?”

Mentally counting to ten, she plugged in the vacuum. “There’s nothing wrong with this job.”

“Okay, maybe that was out of line, but you’re the most capable person I know. I’ve never known anyone smarter than you. You could have gone back into banking or—”

“So why would I stoop so low?” she interrupted, turning around to face him, last spring’s events so much at the surface she trembled. “Have you ever stuck around after your investigations are concluded to see what happened next? Or is it just on to your next assignment with your carefully taken notes so when you get called back to testify you remember the…how did you put it? Oh, yes…the pertinent facts of the case.”

He took off his hat and thumbed the brim before looking at her. “I remember everything, Rachel. And I regret—”

“Regret doesn’t feed my children,” she said, the last tenuous thread on her temper shredding. “And as for going back to work at the bank, nobody would hire me to be a teller, much less a financial analyst—not after learning my business partner had been convicted of money-laundering.”

“That was Angela London, not you.”

“And weren’t you the man who once told me that the quality of a man’s character can be measured in the friends he has?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No doubt.” She looked up then, and met his gaze. “Go away, Micah McLeod. If I never see you or talk to you or—” She swallowed the lump in her throat and willed the tears burning her eyes to go away.

“What’s going on?” Jason Laird stood in the doorway.

“Nothing,” Micah said. “I’m leaving.” He slipped past Jason who watched with his arms folded over his chest.

“You come with me,” Jason said to Rachel. “Right now.”

She knew what was coming, but like so much else over the last few months, being chewed out for talking to a guest was one more thing to be endured.

“Your services are no longer needed,” Jason said as soon as he sat himself down behind his desk.

“You’re firing me?” She had expected to be bawled out—not dismissed.

“You know the rules about contact with guests,” he said, “and your behavior toward our guest just now is completely unacceptable.”

Locking her jaw so her chin wouldn’t tremble, Rachel stared at a point beyond Jason’s shoulder while he finished dressing her down. Fifteen minutes later she clocked out and left the motel. It wasn’t yet 9:00 a.m.

She got in her car and sat there a moment, feeling her debts weighing her down and the empty light on the fuel gauge taunting her with this latest failure.

She needed the money from this job, meager as it was. She couldn’t go home. Be bold as a lion, she told herself, gazing down the road where another dozen motels lined the street. She hated the idea of another maid’s job, but it was routine work that fit with the schedule for her other jobs. Bold as a lion would be to march down to the bank and apply for her old job in the trust department.

But today she was only bold as a hungry kitten so, irritated with her own lack of temerity, she headed for a motel a block away where she filled out her first application. Once more the anonymous demand for the half-million dollars flitted through her head, this time making her laugh silently. Like she would be looking for a sustenance job if she had access to that kind of money.

Even with the promise of better money that would likely come as a result of her appointment with Jane Clark, any income would be weeks to months in coming. Which made today simply another one to survive.

By the time she filled out her ninth application, any humor she had seen in her situation had long since vanished.

“Hello, Tommy,” Micah said to Angela London’s old boyfriend, surprised he had found the man the first place he looked—an upscale pool hall a couple of blocks from the historic Colorado Hotel. The clientele this early in the day was thin—Tommy Manderoll was playing alone. Waiting to score a sale, Micah was sure, since he was the one who had introduced Angela to drugs and the promise of easy money.

The man was nice-looking enough that Micah understood why Angela had gotten involved with him. But he was a user through and through.

Tommy didn’t look up until he had taken his shot, neatly pocketing a ball in the side hole. His eyes narrowed when he recognized Micah. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

Micah shrugged and held out his hands in a placating gesture. “I haven’t asked you anything.”

“Yet.” Tommy moved around the table, chalking up the end of his cue as he went. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.” He hit another ball, this time missing. Scowling at Micah, he accused, “You’ve been following me.”

“I just got to town,” Micah said, leaning against an adjoining table and crossing his ankles as though he had the whole day. “You have some reason to think you’re being followed?”

Tommy snorted. “Like I’d tell you.”

“I dunno,” Micah said crossing his arms. “A man paranoid enough to think I’m following him probably has something to hide.”

“I’m an open book. Ask my probation officer.”

One thing the man had proven last spring was his knack for self-preservation. He’d provided the DA the final pieces of evidence that had convicted Angela, all for the price of his freedom, of course. The man had copped a misdemeanor plea and had been given probation and community service. And Micah knew as sure as he was standing here that Tommy was still dealing and equally certain that if he searched the man or his car, he wouldn’t find anything but chewing gum in his pockets or his car.

“Have you seen Simon Graden lately?” Graden had been the big fish that got away last spring without so much as an indictment touching him. Though Graden hadn’t been charged, it was only a matter of time, since too many paths of money trickled toward his door. Even if Angela hadn’t told him that Graden had threatened her a week before she was sentenced, he would have been Micah’s first suspect.

Tommy took longer lining up the next shot, and once more he missed pocketing the ball. “We don’t exactly run in the same circles.”

Micah knew that to be true. Upscale as this place might be, it lacked the five-star amenities that Graden would expect.

The man was quite wealthy—to most people he was merely one of Aspen’s millionaires. Unlike most others involved with the drug trade at his level, the man had no discernable organization. In spite of all the smoke and mirrors he hid behind, Micah was sure they would soon get him.

Since Tommy had turned on Angela for a price, he figured the man was capable of doing the same to Rachel. “There’s a rumor he’s looking for a missing half-million dollars. You wouldn’t know anything about that?”

“Nope,” Tommy instantly said without looking at Micah.

Micah didn’t believe him. “And you wouldn’t know why he thinks Rachel Neesham has it.”

Tommy jerked his head up, his gaze colliding with Micah’s. So that had surprised him. Interesting.

“Miss Goody Goody?” Tommy shook his head. “That boggles the mind.”

“I don’t hear you denying anything.”

Once more Tommy shook his head. “The only rumor I’ve heard about Rachel Neesham is she’s in debt up to her eyeballs and that she’ll probably lose her house.”

That news kicked Micah hard. He supposed he should have seen that coming, but he hadn’t. Just like he hadn’t imagined her working as a maid in a hotel.

“What about Two-bits Perez?” Micah asked. Two-bits had been a paid snitch and a good “friend” of Tommy’s.

Tommy took his time lining up another shot, his hand steady as a rock when he hit it. “Haven’t seen him since last spring.”

“Even though you’re buddies.”

Tommy shook his head. “He’s no friend of mine.”

If the friendship had dissolved, it could be for a lot of reasons, Micah thought. Tommy could have found out Two-bits was a snitch. Or Tommy could have stopped supplying Two-bits with his drugs. Since Micah had a few questions to ask the man, he hoped the informant was healthy and easy to track down.

Micah pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Tommy. “If you hear anything I might want to know, you’ll call me?”

“What’s it gonna pay?”

Micah gave the young criminal a threatening smile. “The opportunity to keep living as a free man.”

THREE

“I was about to give up on you,” Jane Clark said after Rachel rang her doorbell a few minutes after six that same evening. “I tried calling your old cell phone number, but it’s been disconnected.”

“Yes, it has,” Rachel said. The cell phone, no matter how convenient, was one of the luxuries she could no longer afford.

Jane’s house was on the outskirts of Aspen, an hour’s drive from the job she had finally secured on the thirteenth application she had filled out. She’d had just enough time to change out of her new maid’s uniform and into a simple skirt and sweater before embarking on the drive.

“No matter,” Jane said, smiling over her shoulder. “You’re here now.”

Rachel followed Jane through a huge foyer and down a ten-foot-wide hallway that led toward the library. Last year, Rachel had been here numerous times while antique walnut paneling from a chateau in Reims was being installed in the library.

Jane had a love for the finest in European antiques, from paintings and statuary to exquisite stained glass and architectural elements. Then Rachel hadn’t minded the long drive because having clients in Aspen meant Victorian Rose Antiques had made it to the big leagues.

Jane ushered Rachel into the library. The room looked even more stunning than she remembered. The wood gleamed and hidden lights expertly showcased Jane’s collection of Italian urns. This room represented nineteenth-century carpentry at its finest. Caught up in the details, Rachel didn’t notice the man standing near the French limestone mantel until he cleared his throat.

“This is my friend, Simon Graden,” Jane said, taking Rachel by the elbow and drawing her forward. “When he told me that he was looking for architectural pieces for his home, I told him you were the person he needed to talk to.”

The name was familiar, though Rachel couldn’t place from where.

“Your reputation precedes you,” he said, moving toward her and holding out his hand.

Something in his tone was off somehow, making her shiver.

After the perfunctory handshake, Rachel asked, “What are you looking for, Mr. Graden?”

“It’s true then. You still are in business?”

“I no longer have a store, if that’s what you’re asking.” If the man had been anywhere in Colorado over the summer, he would have read about the scandal-related demise of Victorian Rose Antiques in just about any newspaper.

“But you can get me merchandise?”

“Only the best to be had,” Jane assured him, while Rachel said, “The purchase of antiques requires patience if you’re looking for a particular piece.”

Jane chuckled and moved toward the door. “Something I know from firsthand experience.” She motioned toward Rachel. “You’ll join us for dinner, of course.”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve—”

“Got those darling children to get home to.”

“Yes.”

“Then I need to tell the cook we’ll only be two for dinner. Sure you won’t change your mind?” When Rachel shook her head, Jane said, “Simon, I’ve made the introduction, and I’m leaving you in very good hands. Rachel, help yourself to a beverage.” Another wave, this time toward the built-in bar.

Rachel watched the door close behind Jane, not at all sure what to make of Simon Graden. He acted as though he was fifty, but, despite his gray hair, he looked young enough to be in his early thirties. Wanting to give her hands something to do besides flutter nervously, she opened the small refrigerator and took out a bottle of water.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re looking for,” she said, twisting off the cap and taking a sip.

“A half-million dollars worth of merchandise,” he said evenly.

That again. Her first temptation was to say something flip, like, There’s a lot of that going around. Her second, more concrete thought was that she must not have heard him correctly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Graden. I don’t think I quite understand. Are you planning to go into the antiques business?”

“I have a business.” He smiled, almost gently, and she caught a glint of steel in his blue eyes. “And it’s missing a half-million dollars.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. Surely he wasn’t talking about the anonymous e-mail and the letter demanding money. She took another a sip of water, then shivered as the cold liquid trickled down her throat. His voice startled her when he broke the silence.

“Does that sum mean something to you?”

This was no dark alley where danger lurked, but she was at once as terrified as she might have been facing an armed mugger.

“Business transactions should be simple, don’t you think?” He shook his head, crossed the room back to the mantel where he had left a goblet, which he picked up, then smoothed a finger across one of the facets of cut glass. “An exchange of money for goods or services rendered.”

Rachel swiped a sweaty palm across her forehead, wishing her brain would engage sometime soon and that the panic in her chest would subside. This was bizarre beyond words. This meeting was supposed to lead to good things, to renew a career she had loved. It wasn’t supposed to be one more fear to pile on all the others.

“Reliable resources tell me that you have—or can get—what I want.”

“Antiques?”

He clucked his tongue. “Rachel, I’ve been told you’re a smart woman.” He looked steadily at her, those blue eyes cold and clear, “I’ve been told you already have the…” He paused. “…The item I want.”

Rachel felt completely disconnected, hating how much this all made perfect sense and how nothing about this situation was the least bit sensible. How would Jane know someone like this man—someone shaking her down like the third-grade bully who had regularly taken her lunch money.

Only much more dangerous.

“You don’t have to look so stunned, Rachel. You understand my requirements, don’t you?”

The simple answer was yes. But she couldn’t bring herself to say the word, somehow sure that doing so would mean admitting that she had a half-million dollars that she’d never even seen.

The man had said something about goods or services. “What services?”

“A refund,” he corrected. “That should have been returned months ago.”

“A refund?” Muzzy from the conflicting thoughts going through her head, she looked toward the door where Jane had disappeared.

He smiled. “I knew you’d understand.”

Rachel lifted a hand toward the door. “Jane thinks you want my expertise in antiques.”

“It’s best if it remains that way, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“But—”

“Now, then. When can I expect delivery?”

“I don’t have your—”

“Then I suggest you talk to whomever does.”

The library door clicked open on the heels of a quick knock, and Jane breezed into the room. “Cook says dinner is ready whenever we are. Is Rachel going to be able to help you?”

“I’m sure of it,” he said with a smile, handing Rachel a picture that had somehow magically appeared in his hand. “She was just telling me about her family.”

But she hadn’t been. Numb and feeling completely out of her depth, Rachel glanced down at the photograph. It was of her father, Sarah and Andy at the park a couple of blocks from her house. Andy had the Blue’s Clues Band-Aid on his knee from where he had skinned it.

The day before.

This picture had been taken yesterday.

“You have a lovely family,” he said. “I can see why you’re so proud of little…Sarah, did you say her name was? And Andy. He looks like a wild one.”

This man knows the names of my children. He has a picture of my children. She stared at the photograph, looking for all the world like one she might have taken. Only she hadn’t.

“He’s four now, isn’t he, Rachel?” Jane asked.

“Yes.” Rachel looked up, found Simon Graden standing close enough to touch, a benevolent-looking smile on his face. Then she looked into his eyes and found them to be as cold as the fear slithering through her belly.

“There’s nothing more compelling than family, is there? So nice your father can spend time with your children in the park. And he’s a retired minister, you say?”

Once more, Rachel nodded, her neck and lips stiff. This man was threatening her. And if he could get close enough to take pictures, he could get close enough to do worse.

He extended his hand again, this time with a business card between his fingers. “You’ll call me as soon as you can arrange delivery?”

Rachel automatically took the card, a slight nod to her head, the gesture rooted in the fear swamping her.

“Oh, this is great,” Jane said, crossing the room, a wide smile lighting her face, and giving Rachel a squeeze. “I’ve been so worried about you with that whole nasty business with Angela. And I just knew that you’d be able to get back in business again if you had a little help. It’s no wonder you’re looking a little dazed. Sometimes good news is almost harder to take in than bad news.”

Rachel glanced from Simon to Jane, both of them smiling as though things were wonderful and she wasn’t teetering at the edge of an emotional cliff. She swallowed the bile that burned the back of her throat.

“You should thank Jane,” Simon said. “Friends who will go out of their way for you are rare.”

“Yes,” Rachel agreed faintly, looking around for her purse. All she wanted to do was leave. Run. Gather up her children and her father and simply disappear.

“After you’ve had a chance to research that one item you were going to check on when you get home,” Simon said, “you can call me.”

Rachel looked from him to Jane, who smiled.

“Now that I know you’re back in business again, we’ll talk. I’m remodeling the patio and I was thinking a big bronze urn would be just thing. You know, like that Roman one you showed me last year.” As if realizing she was about to go off on a tangent, Jane laughed. “I’ll save that for next time. It’s so nice to see you again, Rachel.”

“You, too.” Good manners made Rachel respond as she went out the door. Somehow she kept from running down the wide marble hallway to the front entry. Outside, the setting sun was lodged between two peaks, streaming golden rays across the valley. She stared unseeingly at the beauty for a moment, her mind utterly blank, then ran down the wide flagstone steps toward her car.

He wanted her to call him. But she didn’t have his money, didn’t have any idea how to convince him that she didn’t.

In her car, she jammed her key into the ignition and noticed her hand shaking. As the engine revved, she looked at the crumpled picture of her family. Tears burning her eyes, she smoothed out the glossy paper, her fingers lingering over the images of her son and her daughter.

He knew how to find them. And he had threatened her, all the while making it sound as though she was agreeing to find some rare antique for him. What could she even say to anyone else? He’d made it look as though the photograph was hers. He hadn’t said, “I’ll hurt your children.”

He didn’t have to.

She put the car into gear and headed down the picturesque road that led back to the highway and her hour-long drive home. She glanced at the fuel gauge, praying she had enough gas to make it home, while sweat coated her palms.

She’d hoped for a reprieve. Instead, this was one more disaster, and this one scared her like nothing else. She had no idea what to do.

Call Micah McLeod.

That would happen right after manna fell from heaven.

Still, the thought haunted her throughout the ride and didn’t go away after she picked up Sarah and Andy from her next-door neighbor’s house or after she put them to bed. It stayed right with her as she went through her evening chores, making and discarding a dozen different plans. Eventually, she found herself staring blindly out the kitchen window, her reflection taunting her.

A sound outside in the darkness startled her, and she stepped to the side and peered into the night. One more thing she was afraid of, one more fear to conquer since that rock had been thrown through her front door.

A rap on the back door a few feet away made her jump.

“Rachel, it’s Micah.”

She recognized his voice, and slowly moved to the door, unwilling to send him away, unwilling to invite him in.

“Rachel?”

She suspected that he saw her, or at least her shadow, but still she hesitated. How could she open the door to this man who had told her one lie after another, all in the name of doing his job?

“Rachel, please. Let’s just talk.”