Raising The Stakes. Sandra Marton

her child… So much for the lure of Nora Lincoln’s sad eyes and defiant chin, or for the fact that he’d thought he’d seen those same eyes, that same chin, in the photo Harman had shown him.

      “Well, thanks for your time, Kitteridge.” Gray dropped a five-dollar bill on the table. “I’ll give you my card. If you think of anything that might shed some light on your wife’s whereabouts…”

      “Wait just a damn minute, Mr. Lawyer.”

      Gray looked up. Kitteridge flashed a smile as phony as the wood graining in the plastic tabletop.

      “I mean, you ain’t just gonna run off, are you? Now that I told you about my wife, surely you can tell me what her grandpa left her, right?” Harman looked around, then hunched his shoulders and bent over the table. “It’s only right and proper I should know. For the sake of my son, you understand?”

      Gray had an answer ready but he made it look as if he didn’t. “Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose it’s okay, all things considered.”

      Harman licked his lips. “How much?”

      “He didn’t leave her money.”

      “He didn’t… Ah. I got it. He left her a house, right? What do you call it, real estate?”

      Gray tried to look soulful. “No,” he said, “no real estate. Actually your wife’s grandfather died broke.” Was it a lie? Maybe. Then again, maybe not. But the answer would defuse Harman’s curiosity. That was what counted.

      “Broke?” Harman’s eyes narrowed. “Give me a break, Baron. You want me to believe you come here to tell my wife her grandpa didn’t leave her nothin’?”

      “I didn’t say that.”

      “Yeah, you did. You just told me the old man died broke.”

      “But he did leave her something. A music box.” That part had come to him just this morning. He thought it sounded pretty good.

      Harman’s face was a blank. “You’re shittin’ me.”

      “I guess it had sentimental value to him. It’s a nice music box, actually. Walnut, with mother of pearl inlay and a revolving dancer on the—”

      “You want me to think you come all the way here to tell my wife she inherited a music box?” Harman said in a soft, ominous voice. “I guess you think I’m pretty stupid.”

      “I don’t have any opinion of you,” Gray said pleasantly, lying through his teeth as he got to his feet. “You’re right about one thing, though. Given a choice, I sure wouldn’t have come all the way here but, as my client’s representative, I’m obligated to fulfill his wishes. He stipulated that I was to locate his granddaughter and give her the box. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

      “Yeah. Sure.”

      “I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, Kitteridge. I’d love to have told you your wife was sitting on a fortune. Unfortunately, she’s not.”

      Harman wanted to lunge over the table and stomp the crap out of the smart-ass city attorney. Instead he curled his hands into fists in his lap. It was the only way he could manage to smile.

      “Well, that’s somethin’, ain’t it? And here I was, feelin’ good for my Dawn, thinkin’ she was comin’ into easy times. It just goes to show, you never do know, ain’t that right?” He stood up, put out his hand. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Baron. Good luck, findin’ my wife.”

      “Yeah. Same to you.”

      “You get any word, you’ll let me know, right? My boy and I sure do miss her.”

      “I will.” Gray took a card from his wallet and handed it to Kitteridge. “I wonder… Could I have that photo?”

      “Photo?”

      “Of your wife and son. It might help me identify her, if I find her.”

      Harman smiled. “I’d like to help you, but it’s the only picture I got to remind me of her. It’s very valuable to me, if you know what I mean.”

      The lawyer wasn’t dumb. He dug a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and Harman handed over the photo.

      “I can use the money to buy somethin’ nice for the boy,” he said somberly. “You take care now, Mr. Baron. These roads can be slippery in the rain.”

      He waited until the door closed after the attorney. Then he sank down on the banquette.

      “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. Did the man really think he’d fallen for that lie about a music box, or that he’d bought him off with a hundred bucks? There was lots more to this story. Nobody, especially not a lawyer from—Harman glared at the card—from New York City, came all this distance to tell a woman her grandpa had left her a wind-up toy.

      Dawn had come into money, and probably one hell of a lot of it.

      Harman got to his feet, walked to the counter and slid onto a stool. “Gimme two eggs,” he said to the waitress, “over easy. Bacon. Flapjacks.” He leaned toward her. “And more coffee, only it better not be this crap from the bottom of the pot, you understand?”

      The girl damn near clicked her heels, which was just as it should be. The bible said it best. A woman was meant to obey. Wives, especially. And what a wife possessed belonged to her husband. Her body. Her spawn. All her earthly possessions.

      Harman scowled as the waitress put a cup in front of him.

      Dawn was coming into an inheritance, and it was only right and proper he was there to take care of it for her, and to take care of the boy, too, see he was raised up proper. It was time to find the bitch and put her four years of loose living at an end.

      * * *

      Outside, in the parking lot, Gray got behind the wheel of the rental car and drove a couple of miles north before he pulled onto the shoulder of the road, took out his cell phone and dialed Jack Ballard.

      “Jack? Gray Baron here. I just met with Harman Kitteridge. Oh, yeah. He’s just what his rap sheet suggests. Mean. And stupid as the day is long, except when he thinks he smells money. Nope. He hasn’t a clue as to where Dawn is. Trust me, Jack. I had him salivating. If he knew, he’d have—You did?” Gray smiled and gave the steering wheel a light tap with his fist. “Las Vegas, huh? Terrific. Too bad you didn’t call me. I’d have been able to skip my scintillating meeting with Kitter—Oh. Did you? Well, I was in a diner at the ass end of nowhere, which is probably why your call wouldn’t go through. In fact, I’m losing you now. Jack? Jack…”

      The line went dead. Gray put the phone into his pocket, felt something papery and took out the photo of Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge. She didn’t look much like a woman who would walk out on a man and a child, but that only went to show you how misleading a picture could be. He had a photo of his own mother tucked away at the bottom of a drawer. He’d found it years ago, when he was ten or eleven, and she hadn’t looked like a woman who would have done those things, either…but she had.

      Gray checked his mirror, did a U-turn, sped straight through Queen City and headed south, to Flagstaff and the airport. Forget staying on for a few days. Ballard had found the woman. He’d fly home, put things on hold for a week, then fly to Vegas and check out Dawn Kitteridge, though it wouldn’t take much checking before he’d know what to tell Jonas. How much doubt could there be as to the morals of a woman who slept around and then deserted her son, and never mind the way she looked in that photo.

      He knew all about women like that. His own mother had slept her way through Brazos Springs before she’d walked away, left him behind and never once looked back.

      Gray stepped down hard on the gas. Soon, very soon, he’d be able to put this entire incident behind him and get on with his own life.

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