Stranger in Town

CHAPTER 5





Nick Calhoun. The man was, in a word, pushy. The mention of his name, or in this case, half of it, caused my anxiety to spike on several levels. I sat down in the driver’s seat but didn’t start the car. Instead, I opened the glove box, removing a bottle of prescription medication. I didn’t take it often, but reserved it for moments of high intensity like this one.

I hadn’t seen or heard from Nick in months. Not since we’d broken up over his control issues. A three-year relationship wasted—all because he couldn’t meet me halfway. I even moved in with the guy when I wasn’t ready, but it still wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was with him. Nick had never approved of me being a private investigator, so the fact he’d mentioned me to someone else was startling.

I picked my cell phone out of my pants pocket, scanning the contact list until I spotted his name. And then I sat there, staring at Nick’s number, trying to make a decision. It was time for me to experience an important rite of passage every girl endured at some point: the ‘should I’ or ‘shouldn’t I’ of past relationships. I’d never met a woman who hadn’t reached out to at least one of their exes, but I’d never done it. I preferred to remember why things ended and how reestablishing contact usually led to the guy getting the wrong idea about why the girl called him in the first place. Women had several different reasons for reconnecting, of course, but the main one? Closure. And I already had mine. So when I dialed his number and the phone started ringing in my ear, I was anything but prepared.

“You still with the suit?” he said.

“Hello to you too,” I said.

“I didn’t know how long our conversation would be, so I thought I’d get the important part out of the way at the beginning.”

“You expected my call then?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’d rather not talk about him,” I said. “He’s not the reason why I called.”

Nick laughed.

“So you are still with him? Afraid of what he’ll do to you if you call it quits?”

I sighed. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Like what—the fact you refuse to speak to me?”

“The last time we spoke on the phone, you hung up,” I said. “Remember?”

“There wasn’t anything left to say.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“And now?”

Regret. And the strong urge to rewind the moment and make the decision not to call him at all. And an even stronger urge to purchase and consume an entire bottle of wine once I arrived back home. Or maybe two bottles.

Does every woman feel like this?

“Rusty, you still there?” he said.

“Rusty” had been Elvis’s pet name for actress Ann-Margret Olsson, who supposedly considered Elvis to be the love of her life. Since Nick had felt the same way about me once upon a time, in his mind, the name applied. I never liked it. He didn’t care.

“Please don’t call me that,” I said.

“Why not? You used to love it.”

I sighed.

“Can we get back to the reason I’m calling?”

“It’s still all business with you, isn’t it? It was always hard trying to get you to unwind.”

“What do you know, Nick?”

“Do you even think about me anymore?”

“I haven’t thought about us for months.”

“Why? Because you’re too busy with the suit?”

“Please Nick—just stop. All I care about right now is how you know Mr. Tate.”

“Fine. I was traveling through Jackson Hole last week. I was driving straight through, but I was tired, so I decided to stay the night. I went to some local bar and sat next to your guy.”

“Noah Tate?”

“Obviously.”

“Go on,” I said.

“This Tate guy said his four-year-old daughter had been kidnapped several months earlier. He’d come to the realization he would never see her again and had decided to kill himself and his wife.”

“Wow,” I said. “He left that part out of the conversation. At least he didn’t do it.”

“Don’t get too relieved, he almost did. He said he was loading the gun when his wife came in with an envelope addressed to the two of them. He opened it and found some paper inside he claims is from his missing daughter.”

“And?”

“At first I thought he was crazy. I didn’t care if he was drunk or sober. I couldn’t understand why he’d tell that kind of thing to someone he’d just met.”

“So you thought the guy was a lunatic, and yet you gave him my card?” I said.

“I told him I’d left something in my truck and snuck away so I could check out his story. Turned out, it was true. I did a search on my phone. There were photos all over the Internet of Tate, his wife, and their missing daughter. I gave him your card because from what Tate led me to believe, he doesn’t trust the police.”

“Yeah, I got that impression too,” I said.

“I’ve dealt with guys like him before—they all have the same glossed-over look in their eyes. This one’s teetering on the edge. He’s unpredictable, and I thought if anyone could help him, it’s you.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “You always hated what I did for a living.”

“Still do. But no matter what I think, you’ll keep doing it anyway.”

“So you thought why not throw me a bone?” I said.

“Look, I genuinely question Tate’s sanity. But I thought if you looked into the kidnapping, it might give him something to live for—buy the guy and his wife some time before it’s too late.”