“I’m not a law-breaker, Chella. I told you this. I do it all on the up and up. And my guy says he can’t find her. She doesn’t want to be found.”
“Well, I’m not adverse to breaking a few laws when it’s necessary and it’s necessary. Quin needs to get over this shit. And while I understand that you’re not especially interested in revisiting that one particular conversation you had with Rochelle, it’s not fair that you’re not trying hard enough to find her. We don’t even know if she’s alive.”
Yeah. Then there’s that. The little fact that I didn’t tell anyone that Rochelle called me last summer and asked me to tell Quin she was sorry. It wasn’t like I meant to keep it a secret, but I was on my way out of town for the summer. I was traveling. And when I got back things were so busy with getting the Club back up and running… I just forgot.
It’s too late to say anything now. Oh, by the way, Rochelle called me last June and told me to tell you she’s sorry. And she didn’t get an abortion. She had the damn baby because I heard it crying on the other end of the phone.
Nope. Not gonna say that. I have kept the dark side of Elias Bricman tucked neatly away my whole life. I’m not gonna fuck things up now by being honest.
It’s in my best interest for Rochelle to stay gone forever at this point.
“I hired someone,” Chella says, bringing me back to the present.
“For what?” I ask, not following.
“To find Rochelle.”
“No,” I say forcefully.
“Listen to me, Elias Bricman.” Chella slaps her hand down on the table hard enough to make the silverware jump. “I want Rochelle found. I want to see her again. We were pretty good friends and I want her back. So I’m taking things into my own hands. I know a guy.”
“What guy?” Jesus Christ. This is not good.
“He’s former FBI. But he’s in private security and investigations now. He can get info other people can’t. And it’s almost legal.”
I give her the stink eye at that comment.
“Practically legal,” she assures me. “He has connections in the Bureau. He can find things most people can’t.”
“I’m pretty sure you need a warrant for that kind of stuff. I’m not gonna be involved.”
“Fine with me,” she says sweetly. “But it’s a risk if I do it. Smith will be at risk—”
“Chella,” I growl.
“Elias,” she counters. “Just meet with the guy, OK? Please.”
We both turn to look at Margaret when she approaches the table. “Mr. Bricman,” she says. “Darrel Jameson is here for your meeting.”
“Who?” I ask, peeking around her to see a tall guy, late thirties, maybe. Dark suit and sunglasses. I roll my eyes and then look at Chella.
She smiles and stands, reaching for Mr. Jameson, just like she did to me. “Thanks so much for taking this case, Darrel. I so, so, so appreciate it.”
“My pleasure, Chella. You know I’d do anything for you.”
Chella kisses him on the cheek and then gathers her computer. “You guys have fun,” she says, stuffing her things into her tote bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch, Elias?”
I nod, resigned to her tricks, and then pan my hand at the chair Chella just vacated. “Have a seat, Mr. Jameson.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bricman.” He takes a phone out of his suit coat pocket and tabs the screen. “Rochelle Bastille, age twenty-eight—”
Twenty-eight. How did that happen? We met her when she was twenty-four. I always think of her as so young in my head.
“Presently living in Pagosa Springs—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “Presently? You mean you found her?”
Jameson stares at me for a moment. “Of course I found her. Chella asked me to, told me to report to you. Did you… not want her found?”
“Of course I did.” I laugh. Uneasily. “Yes, of course. But I’ve been looking—”
“So Chella tells me.” He gives me a look that says, Liar. “Chella’s great, by the way. I love her to death. She was my very first assignment in the Bureau when she left home at eighteen. Well”—Jameson chuckles—“she ran away a few times when she was seventeen. But I was always there with her. Always watching to make sure she was OK.” He shakes his head in a way that says he found her rebellion cute. Something to appreciate about her.
Which makes me warm to him. A little.
“Pagosa Springs?” I ask.
“It’s a five-hour drive southwest of here. Near the Four Corners. Just east of Durango. Ever been there?”
“No,” I say. “Never even heard of it.”
“Still kinda small-towny. Hard to find places like that in Colorado anymore. But they have a hot springs resort there and Miss Bastille has been living at the resort since last…” Jameson checks his phone. “Last November. One year.”
“A resort?” I ask.
“Mmm-hmm. Fancy one too. Her and her daughter are renting a pretty nice suite. Five thousand dollars a month. Not doing badly at all.”
“Daughter?” I feel sick.
Another glance down at the phone from Jameson. “Adley Bastille. Age six months. Do you want the address? And here’s my bill.”
“Did you tell Chella any of this?” I ask, panicked.
“No. Didn’t have a chance. She gave me Miss Bastille’s name last night and told me to meet her here so she could introduce me to you.”
“Well, don’t tell her yet,” I say, picking up the invoice. I flick my fingers in the air for Margaret, who comes immediately, and give her the piece of paper. “Give me the address, Mr. Jameson. And then Margaret will pay you for your time.”
“Sure thing,” he says, pulling out a business card and writing it down. “That’s the resort,” he says, tapping the card. “Her suite and phone number are on the back.”
And just like that, my world has changed.
“Don’t tell Chella,” I remind him as he walks off.
“No problem,” he calls back over his shoulder.
I get out my phone and tap the private contact for Lisa, my travel agent. She picks up the phone on the first ring. “What can I do for you, Elias?”
“I need a jet. Centennial to Pagosa Springs. Do they have an airport there? Somewhere close, if not.”
“One moment. Let me check.” I listen to the tapping of her computer keys for a few seconds. “They do have a small airfield in Pagosa Springs. When do you want to leave?”
“Now,” I say.
“Well,” Lisa says, “I can get you on a private charter in about two hours. But you’ll have to stay overnight. The airport closes at sunset. Which is at four thirty-six today.”
“Fine. And book me a suite at”—I look down at the card—“Mineral Springs Resort for one night. I need to be back here first thing in the morning.”
“And a regular room for the pilot at the resort as well?” Lisa asks.
“Sure. Whatever.”
“OK, got it. You need to be at Centennial Airport in an hour to check in.”
“I’m leaving now.”
I end the call and take a deep breath.
A daughter. We have a daughter with Rochelle.
How the fuck will I ever explain this to Quin?
Chapter Three - Rochelle