His Secret Son Read online

  “Thank you.” A surge of relief caught Joni off guard. She hadn’t realized she would feel this nervous about returning to the scene of the tragedy.

  Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to come home by herself. Still, although she knew most people would have opted for companionship, she had grown up spending time alone and needed a certain amount of solitude to feel complete.

  Joni paid and got out of the cab. Thank goodness the police had brought her purse to the hospital Wednesday night after locking the house, she reflected as she took out her keys.

  On the porch, she scooped up two newspapers and plucked a bill from the mailbox. As she unlocked the door, she listened for anything amiss, but heard only the hum of the refrigerator.

  She checked the living room, the den and the bedrooms. Drawers stood partially open and cushions had been tossed aside by the police, to whom she’d given permission to enter the premises. Detective MacDougall had told her that he’d tried to minimize the mess.

  In the kitchen, she found masculine footprints smeared as if someone had tried to wipe up mud with a paper towel. Too stiff even to contemplate washing the floor, she returned to the front and signaled the driver.

  After he pulled away, Joni changed from the slacks and blouse that Kathryn had brought into jeans and a rose-colored sweater. Then, gathering her courage, she went out the back door.

  Chapter Four

  Sagging yellow police tape surrounded the patio. Against a support beam leaned Jeff’s bike, the front spokes indented where Joni had fallen on them. She wanted to put it away but decided not to enter the crime scene.

  Someone had collected the broken glass, and yesterday’s heavy rain must have washed the blood off the concrete. The glass table stood sideways to its usual position; the small barbecue grill remained close to the house, by the back door. Brown patches staining the edges of the narrow lawn were the only reminder of the tragedy that had taken place here two days before.

  Snatches of memory came to her from that night: the wind and the darkness, the gash of fear when Lowell confronted her. Was it possible she had stabbed him? Could a person commit such a violent act and not remember it?

  In high school, she had refused to dissect a frog because the idea of cutting into an animal, even a dead one, distressed her. Could she have cut down a man?

  Joni tried to recapture the tactile sense of the haft in her hand, but she couldn’t. The only way she could picture herself using a knife was against a cutting board.

  Trembling, she retreated inside. At least she’d gotten through this first agonizing visit to the backyard. Surely her anxiety would fade with time. If not, she could sell the house. But that would mean a disruption for Jeff, and it would be expensive. Regardless of what anyone might think about her wanting to get her hands on the inheritance, she intended to preserve every penny for her son.

  Twinges of pain crackled through her ribs. In the bathroom, Joni took a couple of over-the-counter pain pills and forced herself to confront the bruised face in the mirror.

  Dark circles made half-moons beneath her hazel eyes, and her skin had a raw pallor, as if she hadn’t slept in a week. Although she’d never been vain, Joni applied some cosmetics to cover the worst damage.

  Bending forward, she fought an onrush of dizziness as she brushed her shoulder-length blond hair into its accustomed bun. The brush grazed the swelling on one side, and she winced.

  At least she no longer looked as if she’d put on fright makeup for Halloween, she decided, and dampened her bangs so they would lie straight. Next, she headed for the kitchen to fix some coffee.

  Joni had read yesterday’s newspaper at the hospital, so she chucked that one into the recycle bin. Opening today’s edition, she sat down to face the worst.

  A follow-up story offered no new information, just sorrowful reactions by leading citizens and employees at Peterson Printing. As for Joni herself, a hospital spokesman—her boss, Basil—reported that she was recovering.

  Gee, she was in good condition. That should come as welcome news to her rib cage.

  She skimmed the rest of the newspaper, stopping to read a short article about the soccer league. A group picture of volunteers included Jeff’s coach, Charlie Rogers. How normal they all looked. And what a nice change it was to read about something that didn’t involve Lowell’s death.

  Charlie wasn’t a bad-looking man, she decided as she studied the photograph. He’d been thoughtful to bring the flowers, but she felt no particular attraction to him. In fact, she hadn’t been attracted to anyone in a long time, not until yesterday.

  Into her mind leaped an image of Dirk, probing and intensely masculine. In the hospital, his nearness had made her sharply aware of her own femininity. She’d had to force herself not to drink in the rugged length of him, the tanned skin and duck, barely tamed dark hair. Not to let her gaze linger on the sturdy hands as they tapped impatiently against his thigh.

  With a start, Joni realized she had been disappointed when he left without touching her. He hadn’t brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead or even shaken her hand. She wanted him to touch her. This stranger. This man who held the power to devastate her world. She must have been alone too long, she reflected with a sigh.

  Her glance returned to the newspaper photo. Soccer. Tomorrow was Saturday, which meant Jeff must have a game. She needed to call Kathryn to confirm the time and place.

  Joni pressed a rapid-dial button on her phone, preset to the Owenses’ number. On the third ring, Fred answered. He ran his life insurance business from a home office.

  “Joni?” he said when he heard her voice. “Are you out of the hospital?”

  “So rumor has it.”

  “Kathryn or I would be happy to bring you some lunch,” he offered.

  “No, thanks. But I do need to know about the game tomorrow.”

  “Eleven o’clock at the high school,” he said. “Do you want us to take Jeff?”

  “Thanks, but I want to keep things as normal as possible for him.” She brushed aside the thought that it would be a relief not to have to attend. “Or maybe I should keep him home till he’s had more time to adjust. What do you think?”

  There was a pause while Fred weighed his answer. She knew how much he valued sports; if it hadn’t been for a knee injury, he might have played professional baseball himself.

  “If he strongly doesn’t want to go, I wouldn’t force him,” Bobby’s father said at last. “But otherwise, kids do their grieving in bits and pieces over a long period. Keeping him home might even delay his adjustment.”

  “That’s what I think, too,” Joni agreed. “Thanks, Fred.”

  “If there’s anything you need, just call.”

  After she hung up, she sat in the kitchen trying to settle her uneasy spirits. What was it that kept nagging at her as if she’d left some business unfinished?

  Through the partly open blinds, she regarded the rosebushes below the retaining wall that separated her narrow yard from the hill. One branch hung limply, probably broken either by the police or by Lowell himself.

  On the slope above, just past a yellow-flowered bush, a squirrel scampered across a large gray rock. It was a peaceful, almost idyllic scene.

  What could she have overlooked? There must be some clue about what had happened, something that would jog her memory.

  Joni studied the calendar hanging beside the refrigerator. Halloween was next Thursday. It would also be her thirtieth birthday, not an occasion she looked forward to with much joy.

  Especially with a possible murder charge hanging over her head.

  Determined not to brood, she carried her cup to the sink. As she set it down, she caught sight of the cutlery block with its telltale empty slot. Joni’s stomach clenched. She should put the blasted thing out of sight. But right now, she couldn’t bring herself to touch it.

  Grimly, she opened the dishwasher and set her cup in the top rack. The thing was nearly full, so after pouring some detergent into the disp
enser, she turned it on.

  Outside, clouds dimmed the Sunlight Weariness came over Joni so swiftly that she barely managed to stagger to the den before collapsing on the couch. She felt lightheaded, perhaps from the delayed effects of hospital medication or from the injury itself. Before she knew it, she was asleep.

  In her dreams, her mind must have been working. When she awoke, she had a sharp, disturbing realization of what she had missed.

  The dishwasher.

  Groggily, Joni stumbled to her feet and went into the kitchen. Finished with sudsing, the machine was rumbling into a rinse cycle. Heedless of the spray, she yanked it open. A second later, the water was automatically cut off.

  Her gaze went first to the cutlery rack in the bottom, but there was nothing unusual about the welter of forks and spoons and butter knives. Her throat tightening, Joni pulled out the top rack.

  There it lay, barely noticeable behind a row of glasses. The carving knife missing from her block.

  She had laid it flat because it was too long to fit with the regular cutlery. It was such an ordinary sight that it hadn’t even registered in her conscious mind, and the police must not have thought to check the top rack.

  The weapon they’d found in her hand wasn’t hers. Whom did it belong to, and how had it gotten there?

  Numbly, Joni set her find on the counter, then closed the dishwasher. It sluiced back into action.

  Water on the floor was turning the policemen’s dried footprints into a muddy mess. From force of habit, she grabbed a rag from beneath the sink and knelt to wipe it up. The routine act of scrubbing freed her mind to absorb the significance of her discovery. She hadn’t killed Lowell.

  The knowledge came with a flood of relief. She hadn’t deprived Herb of his grandson, hadn’t cheated Jeff of his father and hadn’t taken the life of a man whom, in spite of everything, she still cared about.

  She hadn’t killed him, but someone had. Someone who was walking around, unsuspected. Someone who had tried to pass the blame off on her.

  Would the police believe her story? A person could probably pick up a similar knife at a thrift shop or garage sale, not to mention any department store. If only she hadn’t washed the darn thing, it would have been easier to prove that her own knife had been sitting here for two days with food on it.

  She tossed the rag into the sink and Joni sank into a chair at the table. She was too lost in thought to notice that a car had stopped in the driveway. Only when the doorbell rang did she jerk back into the present.

  It might be Herb and Jeff. Or the mail carrier with a package. Or...

  The killer. He could be anyone.

  The bell shrilled again. She didn’t move.

  Someone tried the knob. In disbelief, Joni heard it turn and the door creak open.

  She must have forgotten to lock it after she waved to the cabdriver. “Herb?” she tried to say, but the words stuck in her throat.

  The visitor didn’t call out. It was strange the way he walked into her house unannounced. She heard masculine footsteps marching through the hallway. Crossing the den.

  Maybe she should run for the phone or grab a knife or...

  It was too late. Someone was coming through the kitchen door.

  DIRK FOLLOWED Terry MacDougall through a rabbit warren of desks and cubbyholes to a partitioned bay brightened by a view of the police department parking lot. Files, foam cups and While You Were Out messages littered the desk.

  “Sit anywhere,” the detective said.

  Aside from his own swivel chair, two mismatched high-back seats crammed the small space. Computer printouts filled both of them. Dirk looked to see if the man was joking, noted that he wasn’t and shifted a stack of papers onto the floor.

  “You understand,” the detective went on, “that department procedure won’t allow me to tell you much.”

  Dealing with the authorities in Viento del Mar wasn’t much different from negotiating with officials in a Third World country, Dirk mused as he sat down. The main differences were that he doubted Detective MacDougall expected a bribe and there were no naked electrical lines snaking along the wall.

  “As you know, I’ve cleared this with the chief,” Dirk said. “He seemed sympathetic to my position.”

  MacDougall regarded him with open cynicism. In his late fifties, the man had thinning, light brown hair and a few acne scars left from adolescence. He’d spent a lot of years on the force, Dirk guessed, and even in a small town had probably seen too much for his own good.

  “Of course he did. The Petersons own one of the biggest companies in town, as I’m sure you reminded him.” Idly, the detective adjusted a triptych of photographs facing him. His family, Dirk assumed. “I suppose you think your brother’s death rates special treatment.”

  “‘Special treatment’ meaning what? I don’t expect you to blow my nose for me or wipe the widow’s tears. I also don’t expect you guys to be in a hurry to name a suspect so you’ll look good in the newspapers.” Seeing anger flare in those pale eyes, Dirk added, “Nothing personal, Detective.”

  MacDougall shrugged. “Seems pretty obvious what happened. The only question is, was she really in fear of her life? That’s the D.A.’s job to decide.”

  “Is that your idea of detective work—to settle for what seems obvious?” Dirk demanded, and immediately realized he’d gone too far. “I’m sorry. I realize you’re the professional here. But I don’t think you can write this case off that easily.”

  The other man quirked an eyebrow. “Mind if I ask why you’re so keen on helping your sister-in-law?”

  No point in explaining about his promise to Herb. Dirk doubted the detective would take kindly to the idea of his conducting a private investigation.

  Yesterday afternoon, he had questioned his brother’s doctor about any mood disorders or medications. No luck there, not even a referral to a counselor during the divorce. Lowell would have considered it a weakness to seek help with his emotions.

  Earlier today, Dirk had gone through his brother’s of fice at the plant but found nothing that hinted at Lowell’s state of mind. The police had already searched there as well as Lowell’s house, his car and his club locker, but so far as Dirk knew, they hadn’t found anything.

  He planned to talk to his brother’s friends at the country club, especially Kim DeLong, who he understood was bitter that Lowell had ended their affair instead of marrying her. It wasn’t an interview he looked forward to.

  “She isn’t just my sister-in-law,” Dirk said. “She’s also my nephew’s mother. Even if Joni is eventually cleared, what will the strain and publicity of a trial do to Jeff in the meantime? I think subjecting either of them to unnecessary prosecution would be reprehensible.”

  “Are you so sure it’s unnecessary?”

  “Think about it, Detective,” he said. “There are no witnesses, and it’s medically credible that Joni doesn’t remember what happened. Even if she did stab my brother, which is by no means proven, doesn’t the evidence point overwhelmingly to self-defense?”

  “I’d say a jury should decide that for themselves.” MacDougall watched him intently.

  “These aren’t cardboard figures on a TV show,” Dirk pressed. “My sister-in-law has been through a lot already. So has my nephew. A trial isn’t exactly a minor stress, and it could last a long time. I don’t think that’s a step to be taken lightly.”

  “What are you asking me to do?” The man fiddled again with the photo frames. Dirk glimpsed one of the shots, a middle-aged woman posing with two teenage girls. So the detective did have a family.

  “Don’t be in a rush to go to the D.A.,” he said. “Talk to people around the neighborhood. Look into whether anyone might have had a grudge against my brother or my sister-in-law.”

  MacDougall grimaced. “I hate to tell you this, Peterson, but I don’t think we’re going to get any new evidence in this case.”

  “Maybe not, but what’s your rush?” Dirk challenged. “If you miss anything, it
could prove highly embanassing. I should think you’d want to cross every t and dot every i.”

  A sigh escaped the other man. “Fine. I’ll hold off for a few days while we do some more legwork. That’s the best I can offer.”

  “Good enough.” Dirk stood, and they shook hands.

  The other man’s grip was damp but firm. He handed over a card. “That’s my home number. Don’t use it unless you have to.”

  “Thanks.”

  On his way out, Dirk passed Communications and heard a dispatcher summoning an officer to the scene of a two-car collision. It made him wonder what his life would be like if he’d yielded to impulse in college and switched his major from business to police science.

  Still angry at Lowell after their knockdown fight and largely alienated from his father, Donald, Dirk had considered breaking with his family’s expectations and pursuing a career in law enforcement He’d taken some courses in the field and found he liked the subject but disliked the prospect of being confined to routine police work.

  He’d stuck with business. Then, during his senior year, a buddy in Dirk’s martial arts club told him of a firm recruiting for overseas security work.

  On impulse, Dirk went with him to the recruiter’s presentation and got hooked. He’d signed up immediately after graduation, working as a bodyguard and, later, as a consultant assessing security needs for American businesses.

  He didn’t regret the decision, although the work had been more grueling and less romantic than he’d imagined. It was during those years that he’d identified a need for his present consulting business, and had capitalized on the knowledge and contacts he’d acquired.

  Dirk only wished that either he’d never met Elena or that he could have saved her. Maybe she would have died even if she’d never fallen in love with him. But that possibility didn’t make it hurt less. He couldn’t help her now. Regrets accomplished nothing, Dirk reflected, and pushed them aside.

  After leaving the police station, he stopped for a hamburger, then drove to his grandfather’s condo. There he found Herb washing the lunch dishes and looking tired after a morning of playing with Jeff.