Dark Whispers

“I have a few questions—between old friends—about your colleague, Natalie Drummond.”

Farago lifted his head and said, “Ah. I’m certain you’re aware, of course, the firm requires we sign confidentiality agreements.”

“No doubt.” Clint stared straight into his eyes. “I’m equally certain you understand I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t essential. So, why don’t we cut to the chase? I need information and you need to give it to me.”

The flush of anger climbed from the collar of Farago’s crisp white shirt and quickly spread across his face. “I see.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.” Clint had no desire to waste time or energy debating the issue.

Farago’s glare was lethal. “What is it you want to ask?”

“You’ve worked with Natalie for the past four or so years. Until her accident had she suffered any professional issues?”

A haughty chuckle and a roll of the eyes warned that whatever Farago had to say it wouldn’t be complimentary. “She had a clerkship with one of our esteemed state court justices before coming on board. Some of us had to do our time performing grunt work here at the firm, but not Natalie. The Drummond name and the recommendation of the justice ensured she started with the cream of the crop cases.” Another of those unpleasant smirks. “The rumor was, before her accident she was about to become the youngest partner in the firm.” He exhaled a big sigh. “I’ll never understand why; she wasn’t even that good.”

Clint clenched his jaw to the count of three to hold his temper, then asked, “Tell me about the cases she worked in the months leading up to her injury.”

Farago made a face. “Let’s see. The White case—a mercy killing.”

Clint remembered the one. An eighty-year-old husband allowed his dying wife to end her suffering with a bottle of the opiates prescribed by her oncologist. The video they made with the wife’s iPhone proved the key piece of evidence that turned the tide with the jury. The woman made her own choice, the only thing the husband did was open the bottle since her arthritic hands couldn’t manage the feat.

“Other than that one, there was the Thompson versus Rison Medical Center—a medical malpractice case.” Farago turned his palms up. “Those are the primary ones I recall without prowling through databases.”

Thompson was the case Clint wanted to hear about. The firm represented the medical center. “Thompson versus Rison Medical Center didn’t go down the way anyone expected. Your client was damned lucky.”

Farago shrugged. “I don’t know. Lots of people claim injuries or trouble with medical facilities or their employees; those claims aren’t always based on fact. Emotion can become the center of the case, making it doubly difficult for the defendant’s attorneys.”

“There’s no other case that comes to mind?” Clint pressed.

Farago shook his head. “As I recall, those two pretty much took up her time that year. Why all the questions about Natalie? Is she being investigated?”

Clint ignored his questions. “Her accident was a lucky break for you. You took over her spot on the legal team and the win for Rison Medical Center put you on the partners’ radar.”

Another nonchalant shrug lifted Farago’s shoulders. “The win would have put anyone involved on the partners’ radar. It was a huge lawsuit. We performed above expectations and saved our client a fortune.”

“The rumor mill had Thompson pegged as the winner until the bitter end,” Clint reminded him. Clint recalled well the day the jury returned with the verdict, he’d been damned surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time a sharp legal team had pulled a client’s fat out of the fire. Whatever his history with Farago, the man was a good attorney. He just wasn’t always a good man.

Clint retrieved a business card that provided his name and cell number. “Call me if you think of anything interesting to pass along on the subject.”

Farago studied the card. “You aren’t with the BPD anymore?”

Clint smiled. “I decided to come to work with my old boss in her private investigations agency. I’m sure you know Jess Harris Burnett.” He stood. “We’re taking on the cases no one else can solve.” He gestured to the door. “Which office is Natalie’s?”

The look on Farago’s face was priceless. His eyes bulged. His jaw fell slack. It was almost worth the loss of the career Farago had stolen from Clint a decade ago.

But not quite.

6:50 p.m.

NATALIE WATCHED THE man driving as they moved through the darkening streets. Dusk came a little earlier every day, reminding her that the year was barreling toward an end. It didn’t seem possible that she’d lost so much of the past twenty-four months. She didn’t want to lose any more. She wanted her life back.

“You don’t have to stay with me every minute,” she announced to the silence. Neither of them had spoken since leaving the parking garage. She’d worked well beyond the number of hours allowed by her medical release and Clint had insisted on taking her to dinner. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, the incident in my kitchen yesterday morning notwithstanding.”

Clint smiled. She liked his smile. He was quite attractive for a PI. She’d had her fair share of dealings with private investigators. Most of whom had been older and far less easy on the eyes. In addition to attractive, Clint was well educated and his instincts appeared quite good. He wasn’t the only one doing research. She’d done quite a bit herself last night after he left. Clint Hayes possessed a law degree from Samford. He’d graduated with highest honors, but then he’d turned to law enforcement. There was a story there; she just hadn’t found it yet. He dressed particularly well. The suit was no off-the-rack light wool ready-for-wear. Neither was the shirt or the shoes. When did private investigators start earning such a high salary?

“Feel free,” he glanced at her as he made the turn into the restaurant, “to say whatever is on your mind.”

A blush heated her cheeks. She doubted he had any idea of what precisely was on her mind. She might as well see just how good his perceptive powers were. “You went to law school, yet chose a different career path. I wondered what happened to divert your course.”

He parked in the crowded lot and shut off the engine. The interior of the car fell into near darkness with nothing more than a distant streetlamp reaching unsuccessfully through the night. When he turned to her it was difficult to read his face, but his voice when he spoke telegraphed a clear message.

“I made the decision I needed to make. I don’t think about it and I don’t talk about it. Next question?”

The cool tone was so unexpected that Natalie’s heart beat a little faster. “I apologize for making you uncomfortable. I was merely curious.”

“I’m very good at what I do, Ms. Drummond. Very good. I’ll spend every moment with you and on your case until we find the truth. But—”

Her ability to breathe failed her.

“I am not here to satisfy your curiosity about me.”

Before she could find her voice, he emerged from the car and walked around to her side. Natalie wasn’t sure whether to feel incensed or chastised. When he opened the door she finally remembered to unbuckle her seat belt.

She exited the car. He shut the door and, from all appearances, that would have been the end of it.

“Wait.”

He turned back to her and with the soft glow of the restaurant lights she could see his expression well enough to know he wasn’t angry...it was something else. Had her question injured him somehow? She blinked and wrestled with the best way to handle the situation. Since her injury she rarely grabbed on to the right emotions much less the proper words in a timely manner. She had taught herself to resist emotion and to react with the cool calm for which she had once been known in the courtroom.

“I apologize for asking such a personal question. I’m afraid the injury has left me with far fewer filters than I once possessed. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

He nodded, his only consolation to acceptance. “I had dinner here last week. The salmon is incredible.”

“Does your expense account cover this restaurant?” The words were out of her mouth before Natalie could stop them. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

Clint touched her arm and she opened her eyes. “This one is on me,” he assured her, his tone the deep, warm one she had grown to associate with him.

Before she could argue about who would pay, he ushered her through the entrance and she decided to stop trying so hard...at least for the next hour or so.

Southwood Road

9:20 p.m.

AS HE HAD last evening, Clint insisted on going into the house first. Her sister had phoned to say she was coming to spend the night but she would be late. Natalie wanted to tell her not to bother but she wouldn’t pretend she wasn’t terrified at the idea of being alone at night after the ordeal with the intruder. The idea made little sense since it had been broad daylight when she shot the man in her kitchen.

You did shoot him...didn’t you?

The idea that she was second-guessing herself again after finally, finally reaching the place where she felt she’d regained her confidence made her sick to her stomach.

Clint paused at the bottom of the staircase and she raised her hand. “No need to check upstairs. The security system was armed. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if I wasn’t thorough.”

Natalie nodded, surrendering. “I probably wouldn’t, either,” she confessed.

Side by side they moved up the staircase. She was never able to climb or descend the stairs without admiring the painting of her family as it had once been. Life had felt so safe and so happy then. It seemed unfair she’d lost both her parents before she was thirty. Particularly since they had both been healthy and vibrant. If they were still alive, what would they think of Natalie and her sister? Would her father be proud Heath had been so successful following in his footsteps? Certainly April had become every bit the fund-raising and society queen their mother had been. Natalie sometimes regretted that her sister had not chosen a career path, but in truth what she did was immensely important to the community.

“You grew up in this house?” Clint asked as they reached the landing.

She nodded. “My grandfather built it. He and my grandmother lived here until they died. My parents did, as well. I suppose I will, too.” She caught herself before she suggested it was her turn for a personal question. Not a good idea. His assignment necessitated the asking of questions.

“My father died when I was at Samford,” he said, somehow understanding her need for reciprocity. “My mother remarried and moved to Arizona a few years ago.”

“You miss them? I still miss mine.”

He checked the first of the half dozen bedrooms as well as each of the en suite baths. Just when she was certain he didn’t intend to answer, he said, “I do. My mother calls a couple of times a month, but she rarely gets home anymore. I should visit her more often but I don’t think Oscar likes me.”

He chuckled and the sound made Natalie smile. He had a nice laugh for a man who preferred not to talk about his early career decisions.

Silence lapsed between them as they moved through room after room. He took extra care with the upstairs den and the balcony that overlooked the rear gardens. The French doors were locked, the security monitor in place. She and her sister had played here as children. In the gardens, too; but not without the nanny. The Drummond name and money had always been a target.

When they reached Natalie’s bedroom, she touched his arm. “Please, ignore what you see in my private space.”

His dark eyes held hers for a long beat. “I understand the need for personal privacy, Natalie. You can trust me with your secrets.”

As foolish as it sounded, she did. Perhaps her need for his understanding was because his academic background was so similar to hers. If he believed her...then maybe she wasn’t losing her mind.

The room was neat and freshly cleaned. Suzanna was a perfectionist and perhaps was afflicted with more than a little OCD. On the table next to Natalie’s side of the king-size bed were the first of the many notes to herself. Those on the bedside table reminded her to shut off the alarm and to plug and unplug her cell phone as well as to put it into the pocket of whatever jacket, sweater or coat she would wear for the day.

Each drawer of the room’s furnishings was labeled with what would be found stored in that space. In the closet her clothes were arranged in groupings so that whatever she needed for the day was together. No rifling through blouses or shoes and trying to match. April helped her keep her wardrobe arranged. The first time Natalie left the house with a mismatched ensemble, her sister was mortified and insisted on ensuring it never happened again. Natalie supposed it was necessary since her appearance reflected on the firm as well as the family name. April reminded Natalie that she’d had impeccable taste before the fall. Natalie still liked the same things, she simply felt confused at times when she attempted to put together an ensemble.

One of many things she missed about her old self. Thankfully the occurrences of confusion were becoming more rare, or they had been until the intruder. Most likely she would be fine without all the notes to remind her. She simply hadn’t found the courage to do away with them yet. Soon, she promised herself. Her real hesitation was the fear of failure. As long as the notes were there, she didn’t have to face her potential inability to work without them.

Though her walk-in closet was quite generously sized, somehow Clint’s broad shoulders and tall, lean frame overwhelmed the intimate space. It was then that his aftershave or cologne teased her senses once more. She had noticed the subtle scent in the car. Something earthy and organically spicy as if it were as natural to his body as his smooth, tanned skin. She was immensely grateful she hadn’t lost her sense of smell. Many who suffered TBIs weren’t so fortunate.

He turned and she jumped. “Sorry.” She took a deep breath and followed him into the en suite. There were more notes here. The ones that told her in what order to do her nightly ritual, those that reminded her of where things were stored. Like the others, she didn’t rely on them as much as she had before. This time when he turned to her she felt the weight of his sympathy.

There was nothing since the injury that hurt her more—not the ongoing healing, not the physical therapy, not even the endless hours of analyzing by the shrinks—than the looks of pity in the eyes of anyone who learned the full scope of her loss.

“The house is clear. I’ll stay until your sister arrives.”

She wanted to argue. Damn it, she really did. She wanted to tell him in no uncertain terms that she was perfectly fine and capable of taking care of herself as she always had been. Except...she wasn’t so sure of that anymore. “Thank you.”

As they descended the stairs, he said, “Coffee would be good.”

With monumental effort she smiled. “I am very good with a coffee machine.”

He paused before taking the next step down. “I have a feeling you’re very good at many things, Natalie.”

Whether he truly meant the words or not, she appreciated the effort. No one had given her a compliment in a very long time.

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