Behind The Mask. Metsy Hingle

      Webster’s eyes went flat for a heartbeat. “Then we should have no problems.”

      Deciding he’d had enough of the pleasantries and veiled warnings, Michael said, “You mentioned on the phone that your wife and son had been missing for about six months.”

      “That’s right.”

      “Then I assume the first detective you hired failed to find her.”

      A look of annoyance crossed the other man’s face. “You assume correctly. They found Elisabeth, but she managed to give them the slip before I could get there. A mistake on the agency’s part, which led to their dismissal. That’s why I contacted you.”

      “Speaking of contacting me,” Michael began. “I’m curious why you did. I mean I’m a one-man agency, and there are any number of bigger agencies with more manpower. So why me?”

      Webster smiled, and there was something about that sly twist of the man’s lips that had the hair on the back of Michael’s neck lifting. “Most men in your business would simply be grateful that I called them.”

      “I’m not most men.”

      Webster laughed. “Obviously. But in answer to your question, you came highly recommended by my chief of security, Bernie Pavlovich. I understand the two of you once worked together.”

      It had been ten years since Bernie had been booted off the Houston P.D. on charges of police brutality. Big, brawny and a bully, it didn’t come as a surprise to find out that Bernie was Webster’s hired muscle. What did surprise him was that Bernie would recommend him to Webster, since they hadn’t exactly been friends.

      “Bernie told me you earned quite a reputation for yourself with the Houston Police Department, and that you were their ‘go to’ guy in tough situations.”

      “I was lucky to have good people working with me,” Michael told him.

      “Come now, Sullivan. There’s no reason to be modest. I know you were the unnamed private agent who led the authorities through the swamps in Louisiana a few months ago, enabling them to recapture that trio of escaped convicts.”

      Michael didn’t bother denying it. But he couldn’t help wondering again how Webster had obtained the information, since no one outside the police departments and several federal agents involved knew of his role in the affair. It had been a black eye to both the law enforcement agencies and the FBI that the cons had not only managed to escape a high-security prison facility, but that they had been able to take a prominent businessman hostage in the process. His participation in the venture had been on a need-to-know basis only. Even his fee had been paid out of a private fund. The fact that Webster knew about his role in defusing the incident spoke volumes about the man’s connections.

      Webster took another puff on his cigar, then ground out the hot tip in the ashtray. He sat forward. The genial expression disappeared from his face, replaced by something hard and ruthless. “You have an impressive record, Sullivan. Both as a police detective and as a private agent. It’s the reason I agreed to meet with you when you called—despite your attitude last week. I want my wife back, and I think you’re the man who can find her for me.”

      “For one million dollars.”

      “That’s right,” Webster replied.

      “That’s a lot of money,” Michael pointed out. “No offense, Webster, but I find it hard to imagine any woman being worth that kind of money.”

      “But then you don’t know my wife,” Webster informed him in that smooth, cultured voice that went hand in hand with the man’s thousand-dollar suit, gold cuff links and perfect white teeth. He reached for the photo of an attractive blonde that sat on the credenza and handed it to Michael. “Stunning, isn’t she?”

      Michael had noticed the picture when he’d first come into the room. There was no question about what the man had seen in her, Michael concluded. Despite the demure smile and wistful look in her green eyes, everything about Elisabeth Webster screamed ‘hot sex’—from the long blond hair that tumbled past her shoulders, to the figure-hugging black dress that showcased her curves. Michael allowed his gaze to follow the slashing neckline of the dress to an emerald the size of a baby’s fist nestled between her breasts. At his body’s sharp response to the pale, creamy skin, Michael swallowed hard.

      He dragged his gaze away from the photograph, warning himself not to forget how another knockout blonde with an innocent smile had impeded his judgment, wrecking four lives in the process. He shoved the framed picture toward Webster. “She’s beautiful.”

      “Yes, she is,” Webster told him, his eyes going hot as he stared at the photo once more. “And believe me, she’s worth every penny I’m offering and more.”

      “And your son?” Michael countered, still irritated by his own reaction to the woman and unable to resist prodding the other man from his lustful musings. Besides, except during their initial phone conversation, Webster hadn’t mentioned his son again. “I assume you want him found, too.”

      “Of course,” Webster replied, a trace of annoyance in his voice. “I want you to find both Elisabeth and Timothy.”

      Michael was puzzled by the lack of emotion in Webster’s eyes and voice when he spoke of his son. “Tell me what happened on the day she left.”

      Webster told him about his wife’s depression after having the baby, her mood swings, the tiff they’d had the day before she’d left, and how she’d laced his morning coffee with a sleeping pill and then had run away. According to Webster, the woman had had an emotional breakdown—one which had caused his sweet, gentle wife to flee her husband and home.

      Michael reasoned that chances were, Elisabeth Webster was simply a bored young woman who had grown tired of her rich older husband and had run off. But something about the whole scenario, along with Webster’s story, nagged at him like a pesky mosquito bite. While he might have turned in his badge five years ago, his instincts remained strong. And those instincts were sounding alarm bells now.

      Telling himself that it was Webster’s questionable dealings that had set off his sensors, Michael tried to shake off his misgivings. “What about family or friends? Could they be hiding out with them?”

      “Elisabeth has no family. Just me. As for friends, my wife has always been somewhat of a loner.”

      “You said the other detective had managed to locate her.”

      “Yes, about two months ago in a small town in Arkansas.”

      “And since then?” Michael asked.

      “Nothing. It’s almost as though she’s disappeared from the face of the earth. I’m worried about her. About both of them. It’s the reason I’ve set the reward so high. My wife has led a very sheltered life. She’s not used to dealing with things on her own.”

      “You said she took a lot of cash and jewelry with her when she left. How much?” Michael asked.

      “Nearly fifty thousand in cash. The jewelry was worth probably ten times that amount.”

      Michael whistled through his teeth. If she managed it wisely, that kind of money could keep the missing Mrs. Webster and her son in Happy Meals and modest digs for a long time. “Has any of the jewelry surfaced?”

      “No. The truth is, I doubt Elisabeth would even know how to go about selling it. As I said, she’s led a sheltered life and, because of that, she’s far more innocent in the ways of the world than most women her age.”

      Michael checked himself from pointing out that while Mrs. Webster may look like a fragile flower, the woman obviously had enough grit to rob her husband’s safe and leave him. But then he knew firsthand how deceptive a beautiful woman with a sob story could be. She’d also had enough savvy to elude his detectives for six months. Either that, or she and her son hadn’t been found for another reason. He lifted his gaze to Webster’s. “You know, there’s