Raising The Stakes

“If you mean, did she go back there, the answer’s no.”

“Damn,” Gray said with a little grin, “and here I was, happily anticipating a trip to a sophisticated metropolis called Queen City.”

“Well, actually, I don’t know where you’re going to be taking that trip to meet up with the little lady—that is still your intention, isn’t it? ‘Cause the thing is, she didn’t exactly leave a forwarding address.”

Gray put down his fork. He’d been telling himself this was all over, that he’d go to Arizona, spend an hour talking with Lincoln’s granddaughter, then fly to Espada and end his unwanted obligation to his uncle.

“Are you saying you don’t know where she is?”

“I’m saying I haven’t located her yet, but I will.”

“Damn.” Gray shoved his plate aside. All at once, he had no appetite. “How much longer will it take?”

Ballard shrugged. “I can’t say for certain. Four years is a long time and when the lady left, she seemed determined to cover her tracks.”

“Kitteridge doesn’t know where she went?”

“I didn’t talk to him. Not yet, anyway. He was out of town but from what I picked up from local chitchat, he has no idea what happened to her.” Ballard patted his lips with his napkin. “Hey, don’t look so sour. I promise, we’ll find her. I’ve got three men looking for her.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Gray sighed, sat back and rubbed his hand over his forehead. “I just don’t want this to drag on forever.”

“You said money wasn’t a problem.”

“It isn’t. Time is my concern. I want to get this done with.”

“Gray, my man, don’t I always deliver?”

It was true. Gray had no doubt that Jack would find Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge. He just had to be patient.

“Yeah, you do. Look, put another couple of people on it, okay? Do whatever it takes to locate the lady.”

“Absolutely.”

“Meanwhile, what’s this Harlan Kitteridge like?”

“It’s Harman. I told you, I didn’t meet him, but I did some checking. He’s got some stuff on his record.”

“Such as?”

Ballard opened his notebook again. “Some DWIs. Two bar fights. He broke up a guy pretty bad in one of them but witnesses said it was self-defense so, you know, case closed. An assault on a woman he’d been living with. Beat her up and she called the cops but when it came to the courtroom, she said she’d hurt herself taking a tumble down the stairs and all she wanted was Harman out of the place.” Jack looked up. “Nothing once he married our girl. Dawn either swings a heavy bat or she reformed him.”

“Yes,” Gray said lightly. “They sound like a real nice couple.”

The bus boy cleared their places. The waiter stopped by. Gray ordered espresso; Ballard ordered a cappuccino and cheesecake.

“So,” Ballard said, “the next thing I’m going to do is fly on back to Queen City and have a chat with Mr. Kitteridge. He’s on his mountain again.”

“I thought you said he doesn’t know where his wife is.”

“I said that’s what the town says. Besides, even if he doesn’t, maybe he can give us some clues. Maybe she talked about wanting to see someplace special. Maybe she has friends in places outside Queen City.” The investigator peered at the slice of cake the waiter put in front of him, then dug into it. “At the very least, he can probably fill in some blank spaces while my guys look for her.”

“That sounds reasonable, I guess.”

“Trust me, Gray. It is reasonable. Just tell your client to keep his pants on, okay?”

Gray laughed. “I’m sure he’ll love the advice, Jack. Anything else?”

“Nope. Oh. Yeah, before I forget…” He patted one breast pocket and then the other. “Here,” he said, and held out a small white envelope.

“What’s this?” Gray opened the envelope. Inside were the photo of Jonas and Ben, and the one of Nora Lincoln. “Ah. The pictures. You don’t need them anymore?”

“Not really. Besides, I made copies. I figured your client might want these back.”

Gray nodded and pocketed the photos. “You’ve done fine, Jack. To be honest, I didn’t think we had a chance of coming up with anything, but you’ve managed to find the girl.”

“Not yet. I found where she lived and who she lived with.” Ballard took a sip of his cappuccino. “She’s still among the missing.”

“Among the…” Gray looked up. “You think something happened to her? That Kitteridge did something?”

“Hell, no. Jeez, you’ve been associating with lowlife too long. No, Gray. I just mean I haven’t located her yet. But I will.”

“Fine. Call me when you do. In fact, call me after you go to Queen City and speak with Harman Kitteridge. I have to admit, I’m curious.”

Ballard grinned. “Your wish is my command, counselor. Say, is this lunch on your client’s expense account?”

“Why?”

“You think I could have another slice of that cheesecake?”

* * *

That night, Gray phoned Jonas and gave him a brief update. When he finished, there was a long silence. Then his uncle cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, “the girl really exists.”

“Yeah. So it would seem. Do you still want her found?”

“Yes, of course. Find her, talk to her, see what she’s like…” Another silence. “This husband of hers. He doesn’t sound like anybody’s idea of Prince Charming.”

“No. He doesn’t.”

“You’re gonna meet with him?”

“No,” Gray said coldly, “I am not. The investigator I hired will do that. There’s no reason for me to talk to the man.”

“You got a good way of seein’ inside people.”

Gray laughed. “Don’t try to con me, okay? If I did, I’d have figured out, years back, that the only way my father could have come up with money for my schooling was by begging it from you.”

“You know, boy,” Jonas said, his voice hardening, “maybe you ought to be grateful he did, otherwise what would you be doin’ right now? Not livin’ high on the hog in New York City, I bet.”

“I’ll call you when I know more,” Gray said, and hung up the phone.

Hours later, he gave up trying to sleep. The old man certainly had a way of getting to the heart of a thing. He’d grown up disliking Texas and despising his uncle, congratulated himself for getting free of both…and now it turned out he hadn’t actually escaped either one.

He went into the kitchen, switched on the light, took the pictures Jack Ballard had given him from the kitchen table and stared at the faces frozen in time.

There was more to this tale than his uncle admitted. Gray had suspected it. Now, he was sure of it. He’d been a lawyer long enough to sense when a client was omitting pieces of a story. Sometimes, you were happy to leave it like that. You wanted the truth, but you didn’t want to hear things that might keep you from doing the best possible job. Defending a man against a charge of murder was a lot easier when you believed he hadn’t actually committed it. There was no murder involved here but something dark and distant was gnawing at Jonas’s innards. And, like it or not, he was being drawn further and further into the situation.

He sat down at the table and stared at the picture of Jonas and Ben Lincoln. Was there a whisper of hostility hidden inside those smiles? And the picture of Nora Lincoln. He touched the tip of his finger to her face. Were her eyes cool, or were they infinitely sad? Maybe that chin wasn’t tilted in defiance but in self-defense.

“Dammit,” Gray said, and kicked back his chair. What did it matter? The story, whatever it was, dated back half a century. And it sure as hell didn’t involve him. He had better things to think about than a dead woman who might have a secret in her eyes and a granddaughter who had run away from a mountain in the middle of nowhere.

The case that had consumed his time for the past few months was winding down. Tomorrow, he’d present his closing argument to the jury. His client would walk free. Gray wasn’t foolish enough to think you could predict how a case would end but sometimes you could make a pretty shrewd guess. His client had been accused of felonious assault with intent to kill; he’d sworn that the witnesses had misidentified him. Gray hadn’t been concerned with the man’s guilt or innocence. That wasn’t his job. His duty was to convince the jury that the witnesses were wrong, that there was reasonable doubt that it was not his client who had committed the crime. Every instinct he had assured him that he’d done that.

He’d be free of the case in a few days. He’d thought about taking a break, getting away from the city and the stress of his job, maybe doing something different enough to get the juices flowing so he’d feel the way he once had about his work. He’d even had a talk with his travel agent, who had given him a stack of brochures about things that ranged from running the rapids in Alaska to mountain trekking in Nepal.

He’d been to Alaska. And there were mountains in northern Arizona.

He looked at the photo of Nora Lincoln. What would she think, if she knew her granddaughter had spent most of her life in a trailer park? That she’d married a man with an arrest history and then left him?

“Life sucks,” Gray said softly, “and then you die.”

He went into his study, flicked on the light, looked up Jack Ballard’s phone number in his address book and dialed it. Ballard answered on the second ring.

“It’s late,” Ballard said in a gravelly voice. “This better be good.”

“Jack, it’s Gray Baron. Look, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour but…” Gray cleared his throat. “You know that trip you were going to make to Arizona? The thing is, my client—well, I have a personal connection to him. And, as a sort of favor, I’ve decided to talk with Kitteridge myself. Uh-huh. I’m going to fly out there, probably within the next couple of days. No, no, I’m not pulling you off the case, Jack. Far from it. I want you to locate Dawn Kitteridge for me. Absolutely. Right. Yes, do it just the way I asked. Find her, but don’t approach her. You just tell me where the lady is and I’ll take it from there. Great. Thanks, Jack. I appreciate it.”

Gray hung up the phone and headed back to bed.

Definitely, he could use the change in routine. He was starting to get curious about where this was really going. Jonas might be dying but he still couldn’t quite accept him as a man bothered by a prickly conscience, especially when it involved something more than fifty years old. And then there was that look in Nora Lincoln’s eyes. Would he see it in her granddaughter’s eyes, too? Gray needed to find out, not for Jonas but for himself.

Three days later, with another acquittal in his files and the directions to Queen City in his pocket, Gray flew to Arizona.

CHAPTER THREE

IF TEXAS was hot, Arizona was the gateway to hell.

Gray flew into Phoenix in early afternoon. He could have saved time by flying into Flagstaff but he decided that the extra half day it would take him to reach his destination was worth it. He’d get the chance to decompress after the rigors of the trial and to work on the excuse he’d thought of to explain to her husband why he was looking for Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge.

He picked up his rental car and dumped his bag in the trunk. Desert heat was dry heat, people always said, as if without humidity a temperature of one hundred and six would be no problem. Gray was dressed for comfort in chinos and a white shirt with an open collar and rolled up sleeves but he still felt as if he was standing in front of an open furnace.

He set the AC on high and headed north on Highway 17.

After a while, the land opened up into true desert, broken only by occasional roads that seemed to arrow through the scrub and cactus toward the distant mountains. Eventually the highway began to climb. Pines towered overhead; patches of snow glistened on the higher ridges. Gray turned off the air-conditioning, put down the window and drew in deep breaths of cool, clean air.

The countryside was spectacular, and all that open space coupled with the scent of pine was soothing. He could almost feel his tension starting to drain away. Coming here to see Harman Kitteridge had been the right decision. He could satisfy his curiosity, ask some questions Jack couldn’t because there had been no reason to tell him he was looking into this for his uncle. He didn’t plan on telling Kitteridge, either. It was always best to play your cards close to your chest.

Gray took one hand off the wheel, dug in his pocket and took out the map his travel agent had faxed him. She’d booked him into a place called the Drop-On Inn for the night. That was the only place available in the vicinity of Queen City, she’d written, and he’d visualized how her elegant eyebrows must have lifted at the news that he was going to such a hole in the wall. She’d also included the names of a couple of resort hotels between Flagstaff and Queen City, along with a polite note saying he might prefer one of them to the Drop-On Inn.

Gray knew she was probably right but he figured it would be simpler to stay near Queen City for the night. With luck, he’d meet with Kitteridge in the morning, and how long could a conversation with the man possibly take? An hour? Two? After that, he might just check out some of those hotels his agent had mentioned. This was beautiful country, high, rugged and untouched. A little time off here could be just what he needed.

He turned on the radio, searched for a station that played the kind of cool jazz he liked and settled instead for some guy singing about a love gone wrong. A couple of songs later, he was humming along with the melody. Yessir, making this trip had been a fine idea.

The Drop-On Inn dimmed his enthusiasm only a little. The sign out front said Motel but it was just ten small rooms strung together like links of sausage. Still, the place was clean, his room had a TV that received two channels, and there was even a caf;aae next door. Gray and a trucker who apparently owned the eighteen-wheeler parked at the other end of the motel were the only customers. He ordered a steak that overflowed the plate and mashed potatoes floating in enough butter to make him feel guilty so he passed on dessert, had a cup of coffee, went back to his room and slept as well as a man could when his feet hung off the end of the mattress.

He awoke to sunshine but by the time he’d finished off a stack of pancakes and three cups of coffee at the caf;aae, a bank of charcoal clouds had rolled in. Clouds or not, he felt pretty good when he set off for Queen City. He’d definitely make a short vacation out of this trip. If there was a camping equipment store in Queen City, he’d stop there after he finished with Kitteridge, buy himself some boots and some simple gear, use one of the hotels his agent had recommended as a base and head into the mountains. Gray liked the isolation of hiking but he also liked hot tubs, soft beds and the company of beautiful women. A few days in the wilderness, followed by another few days in a luxury resort, would feel just fine.

He found the station that played country love songs again and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm with the music. It was hard to believe he’d wasted time the other night, sitting in his apartment, looking at a picture of a dead woman and speculating about what kind of life she’d have led, or what life she’d have wanted for her granddaughter.

The first fat drops of rain hit the windshield as he passed a sign welcoming him to Queen City, population 3,400 and home of the Patriots Regional High School Championship Football Team. Jack Ballard had given him a phone number for Harman Kitteridge. Gray had laughed and jokingly expressed surprise that the cabin would have a phone and electricity. Now, slowing for the first of the two traffic lights Ballard had mentioned, he thought the same thing again. This time, he meant it.

To call this place a city was not just an overstatement, it was a pathetic dream.

Queen City had seen better times. At least half of the shops on Main Street were vacant. The only living creature in sight was a dog relieving himself on a teetering pile of boxes in front of a boarded-up store. If it was a comment on the town, Gray agreed with it. Even the mountains that ringed Queen City were depressing. Their colors were sullen and their looming presence made him feel claustrophobic.

He drove into the only gas station in sight and stopped beside a self-service pump. While he gassed up, he dialed Kitteridge on his cell phone. It was Sunday and he figured the odds on finding the man at home were good. He hadn’t called in advance because the less time he gave him to think about this visit, the better. In fact, the less Kitteridge knew about the real purpose of this visit, the better.

Kitteridge answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”

“Harman Kitteridge?”

“What’s it to you?”

So much for the social niceties. Gray tucked the phone against his shoulder as he pulled the nozzle from the gas tank and hung up the hose.

“My name is Gray Baron.”

“I don’t want none.”

“Excuse me?”

“Whatever it is you’re sellin’, I don’t want it.”

“I’m not a salesman, mister—”

Gray winced as the phone slammed in his ear. He got into the car and hit Redial. Again, Kitteridge answered immediately.

“Mr. Kitteridge,” he said quickly, “don’t hang up. I’m not selling anything.”

“You think I’m an idiot? Of course you are. What is it? In-surance? Home repairs?” Kitteridge’s voice took on a nasty edge. “Or maybe this is about that there loan you bastards give me last year.”

“It’s nothing like that. This is about your wife.”

“My what?”

“Your wife. Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge.”

There was a long silence. “Who is this?” Kitteridge finally said, so slowly that Gray could feel his suspicion through the phone.

“I told you. My name is Baron. Gray Baron.”

“What do you want with my wife?”

“I’d like to talk with her.”

“So did that other guy, couple of weeks ago, folks tell me. Or are you gonna claim you and he don’t know about each other?”

Gray thought about playing dumb and decided it would only heighten Kitteridge’s mistrust. “No,” he said, “I’m not. He worked for me.”

“And the both of you want to talk to my wife? Well, anything you got to say to her, you can say to me.”

“I’m afraid not,” Gray said politely. “This is a legal matter. I can only discuss it with her.”

“She don’t talk to nobody unless I say she… What kind of legal matter?”

Kitteridge’s tone had gone from hostile to sly. So far, so good. A horn tapped behind Gray. He glanced in the mirror, put the car in gear and pulled away from the pump.

“Well,” he said, as if saying more would violate his code of ethics, “I suppose I could explain it to you… But not over the phone.”

“You a cop? ‘Cause if the bitch got herself in trouble, I ain’t interested in hearin’ about it.”

“No trouble,” Gray said easily. “I’m not a cop, I’m a lawyer.”

“A lawyer? An’ you want to see Dawn?”

“Yes. I’m trying to find her for a client.”

“What in hell for?”

“I really can’t say too much, Mr. Kitteridge, but since you’re her husband, I suppose it’s all right to tell you that this involves settling the estate of your wife’s grandfather.”

“That’s nuts. Dawn ain’t got no…”

Kitteridge stopped in midsentence. Bingo, Gray thought, and waited.

“Are you sayin’ somebody left my wife money?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kitteridge,” Gray said politely. “I have to meet with your wife.”

“Yeah. Okay. Uh, where are you? I mean, are you comin’ to town?”

“Actually I’m already here. I’m in a gas station on the corner of Main and Liberty.”

“Uh-huh. Ah, there’s a diner across the way. See it?”

Gray peered out the window. A red neon sign blinked the words Victory Diner through diagonal sheets of rain. “Yes, I see it.”

“Go on in, get us a booth. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Be sure your wife is with you,” Gray said, as if he had no idea Dawn Kitteridge had flown the coop.

Kitteridge hung up. Gray let out a breath, checked for nonexistent traffic and drove across the road to the diner.

Almost twenty minutes later, he was nursing a cup of inky black liquid the waitress had poured him when the door opened. A man stepped inside. He was maybe six-three with a rugged, work-hardened body and a face Gray figured men would call nasty and some women would call strong. The guy shook himself like a wet dog as the door swung shut, thumbed an oily-looking lock of black hair from his forehead and scanned the room even though Gray and the waitress were the only people in it.

“Coffee,” he barked in the general direction of the counter. He walked toward Gray with a loping swagger. “You Baron?”

Gray got to his feet. “Yes.” He forced himself to hold out his hand. He had the irrational feeling he’d want to wipe it off after Kitteridge shook it. “Harman Kitteridge?”

Kitteridge looked at Gray’s hand as if he’d never seen a lawyer’s hand without a subpoena in it before. Then he grasped it and fixed his eyes on Gray’s.

“That’s my name.”

He squeezed Gray’s hand hard. Harder, when Gray didn’t flinch. What Gray really wanted to do was laugh. Was he actually being invited to have a pissing contest in a run-down diner on Main Street, U.S.A.? He was going to have some interesting tales to tell when he got back to New York.

Kitteridge grunted. Gray wasn’t sure if it was a sign of dissatisfaction or pleasure. He let go of Gray’s hand, slid into the opposite banquette and sat back while the waitress served his coffee. He poured in cream, added half a dozen heaping teaspoons of sugar, stirred the coagulating mess and licked the spoon before dropping it on the table.

“What’s this all about, Baron?”

“It’s about your wife’s grandfather’s estate.”

“What about it?”

“Sorry. I can’t discuss it with anyone but her.” Gray looked past Kitteridge, as if he expected to see Dawn standing near the door. “Where is she? I told you to bring her with you.”

Minutes passed. Kitteridge’s stare was filled with venom. Finally he drank some coffee, then put down his cup.

“She ain’t here.”

“Where is she, then?”

“Listen, man, my wife is out of town. You want to waste this whole trip?” Kitteridge grinned, showing off sharp, yellowing teeth. “Or you want me to think you always hang around places like this diner and Queen City?”

Okay. Kitteridge wasn’t really stupid. Gray could only hope he was greedy, greedy enough to swallow the story he was about to tell him. It was one part truth, nine parts fantasy, and—he hoped—sufficient to get information without giving any.

“Well, I guess it won’t hurt if I fill you in on some of the details. This is about Ben Lincoln.”

“Who the hell is Ben Lincoln?”

Gray reminded himself that losing his temper and telling this asshole that he was an asshole would be counterproductive.

“Your wife’s grandfather,” he said calmly. “On her mother’s side.”

“What about her mother?” Kitteridge’s eyes narrowed. “Who you been talkin’ to?”

Definitely an asshole, but he needed him. Take it easy, Gray told himself, and just keep smiling.

“Nobody. I’m trying to give you some background, make sure you understand the importance of this conversation.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got that. Go on. What’s the deal?”

“Your wife’s grandfather left her something in his will.”

Gray could almost see the dollar signs light up in Kitteridge’s eyes. “Dawn’s got money comin’?”

“The inheritance isn’t much. Not by most standards. Look, I can’t actually discuss it with you, so if you’d just tell me where I can find your wife—”

Kitteridge shot out a hand and grabbed Gray by the front of his shirt. “Listen here, Mr. Lawyer, I’ve about had it with your games. How much is comin’ to her? I’m her husband. I got the right to know.”

Gray closed his hand around Harman’s wrist and pressed his thumb against a pulse point. He could see the shock in the other man’s face as he began exerting pressure. When he was a kid, he’d worked his father’s pathetic excuse of a ranch, branding cows, neutering bulls, breaking the few horses Jonas usually let Leighton buy for next to nothing each year. He’d played rugby at Princeton, soccer at Yale, and as soon as he found himself chafing at the sedentary boundaries imposed by his profession, he’d taken up handball, racquetball and Japanese aikido. His body was honed and hard, his grip strong and unyielding and he knew, with a little rush of satisfaction, that the prick seated across from him had not expected any of it.