Alias Page 3

  “I know you do, honey. Come on in.”

  “Yeah, come on, Mom, you gotta see the puppies.”

  Darcy looked at Megan. “Puppies?”

  “They’re the neighbor boys’. Six of them.”

  Darcy gave her a “don’t even think about pawning one off on me” look as she put Charlie down. She couldn’t have a pet in a beauty salon, and since Charlie was in the salon in his play area during the day, that wasn’t happening. She walked a thin line with the state board of cosmetology because while her schooling and initial license were real, the license posted in the salon was a forgery for Piper Daniels.

  In the kitchen, Megan pushed a mug of coffee into her hand. “Everything okay? You look—I don’t know. Different.”

  A good cry did that sometimes, Darcy thought, but hoped it was her new determination to break free of Maurice that showed. “I got some good sleep, I guess.”

  Megan wasn’t fooled, but didn’t push it. “Well relax, your first appointment isn’t till ten this morning.”

  Darcy was watching Charlie roll around with puppies. She turned to look at Megan. “How’d you manage that for a Saturday morning?”

  Megan grinned. “I have my gifts.”

  Darcy smiled as Meg went to dress for work, feeling fortunate just then.

  Megan Pinchon was the only person she trusted with her son. Megan had been the common-law wife of an abusive husband and was the first woman Darcy had helped. By accident. Megan had been trying to climb out the bathroom window of a fast-food restaurant to get away, and Darcy had switched clothes with her and helped her escape. She’d given her a job as her receptionist and a place to live till she could support herself. They’d done some healing together and Megan had been a huge help with Charlie. She was also the only person in Comanche, Nevada, who knew that Piper Daniels was really Darcy Allen Steele.

  She’d trained Megan to defend herself and, while Darcy was away, to defend Charlie. She didn’t have a single doubt that Meg would protect her boy with her life, and it made leaving a lot easier.

  Darcy sipped the coffee, watching Charlie and the six puppies again. She couldn’t imagine life without him, and she had to make his world safer.

  Megan came back, dressed and eating another doughnut. The woman was rail thin no matter how much she stuffed in her mouth. It was maddening.

  “Ahh, now there’s a grin.” Meg pointed with the half-eaten doughnut. “Since Rainy’s death, I didn’t think I’d see that again.”

  Darcy turned to her, pushing her hair off her face. “Me, either.” It was hard to believe the funeral had been nearly two weeks ago.

  Her brows knit as she freshened her coffee, the night Rainy died rolling back.

  “I’m calling on the Cassandra promise,” Rainy had said on the phone. They’d made the pact as teens, that when one of them called for help they would come, no questions asked. “Meet at the Christine Evans bungalow.” Christine was the principal of Athena Academy, and her bungalow was on school grounds. Darcy had bought tickets to Phoenix, Arizona, the nearest city, immediately.

  Rainy had insisted on secrecy. That alone told them something was up. Alex, Kayla and Josie were there before Darcy had arrived with a sleepy Charlie. Christine hadn’t known what Rainy wanted to talk to them about and only mentioned searching the school records.

  Exactly why Rainy wanted to meet with them at the principal’s house they never learned. She was killed in an accident just an hour before the appointed time. Darcy swallowed, holding back new tears. Car crash my fanny, she thought, growing angry again.

  None of the Cassandras believed the doctor’s report that Rainy had fallen asleep at the wheel and crashed.

  Alex, a forensic scientist with the FBI, had observed Rainy’s autopsy. Alex had discovered that the appendectomy Rainy had supposedly had during her first year at Athena had been a fake. She’d also noticed severe scarring on Rainy’s ovaries.

  Rainy’s husband, Marshall Carrington, had revealed that he and Rainy had been trying for years to have a baby. Recently Rainy had begun fertility treatments. Her doctor had told them Rainy had scarring on her ovaries that would make it hard for her to conceive. The doctor had thought it the result of a natural physical problem. The Cassandras now suspected, as Rainy must have, that her eggs had been harvested when she was only a girl and the scarring was a result of that monstrous crime.

  Automatically her gaze swung to Charlie rolling around on the grass with another little boy and six fat black puppies. She could almost feel her heart break for Rainy. Charlie was her whole world and she understood her friend’s need for a baby.

  But it was depraved that someone would violate a twelve-year-old girl for her eggs. And the Cassandras were certain that someone had taken the eggs for a reason. God, with the technology, it could be any number of options and experiments. The thought turned Darcy’s stomach.

  Rainy’s doctor had also left town suddenly, and Alex and Kayla’s efforts to find out her whereabouts had so far come to nothing. And what about Kayla fainting while on Athena grounds just before the funeral?

  Darcy made a mental note to call Kayla sometime today to see if she’d learned something more. The one thought repeating in her mind was, if someone had fertilized Rainy’s harvested eggs, in-vitro or perhaps via a surrogate, then there was a real possibility that Rainy had a child out there somewhere.

  Darcy’s skin chilled. If Rainy found out and had been killed to keep it quiet, then it was murder. The questions the Cassandras had to answer were who had harvested the eggs and why.

  Oh, Rainy, she mourned, covering her mouth and fighting fresh tears. You knew, didn’t you?

  Before you died, you knew.

  Her throat tightened, and suddenly, Darcy pitched her coffee and stepped off the back porch. Kicking off her shoes, she called to Charlie and plopped down in the grass. The puppies hopped all over her and she lay flat, letting them lick their fill.

  But it was Charlie’s sweet giggles that melted the pain in her heart.

  The Chop Shop was humming, with four stylists hard at work and more clients waiting to be pampered. The atmosphere in the fifties garage-style salon, complete with cheesecake posters and retro fittings, invited fun and drew a wide variety of clients.

  The doors on the stylists’ work stations were old car doors, cut to fit, the handles authentic. The chairs were comfy car seats upholstered in electric blue. Even her appointment desk was the chopped-off front end of a Cadillac, complete with windshield. The walls were high gloss with four-foot-wide tear stripes in hot pink, electric blue and neon green between wide paths of black, toned down by the black-and-white checkerboard floor. Neon signs with the shop’s name hung outside and in the front window.

  Darcy had put her mark on everything, from the black work aprons with the shop’s name emblazoned in hot pink to the play area for Charlie and her customers’ kids. Yet she longed for the day when she could add her real name to the proprietress sign tacked near the front door.

  She passed the picture of the previous owner, Crystal Hart, smiling, knowing Crystal would approve of the new look and name. Darcy loved the salon because Crystal had taken her in, given her a job and kept her secrets. The older woman had been more interested in helping her with Charlie than doing hair and to Charlie, she’d been more of a grandmother than Darcy’s own mother. Which wasn’t hard, she thought, sectioning off a client’s wet hair for a cut. Delores Allen had her nose deep in a fifth of scotch by noon every day. Darcy shook off thoughts of her mother and started cutting.

  For less than two short years, Darcy had been graced with Crystal’s wisdom and kindness. Then Crystal had been diagnosed with cancer. When her health declined, Darcy took over the business for her. Crystal’s dying wish had been for Darcy and Charlie never to have to hide behind an alias again.

  Darcy was determined to get her life out of this holding pattern.

  Around her, blow-dryers whined and the strong scents of tint and bleach permeated the air. Fif
ties music played in the shampoo area in the back of the salon while the television entertained the clients in the front.

  She trimmed her client’s hair, not paying attention to anything but the cut. Charlie was corralled in his play area with another customer’s child, coloring.

  Her client spoke up. “Oh, there’s that thriller movie that’s coming out. I want to see it. Ben Collier is to-die-for cute.”

  Darcy barely glanced up at the TV as the entertainment segment came on. She kept trimming hair. When she glanced up again, she saw the Steele Productions Presents logo and her heart slammed in her chest.

  Maurice.

  There was a brief theatrical trailer for the action-spy thriller before the commentator said, “Critics are calling the high-budget film Dead Game the action thriller of the year. Ben Collier delivers a surprisingly stellar performance that some say will make him the next box-office king. The film combines a tremendous script, daredevil action and breathtaking locations. The film world is breathlessly awaiting this release because recent Pegasus-backed films involving Ben Collier and executive producer Maurice Steele haven’t had the expected box-office draw in recent years. Sources tell us that Steele cofinanced this film himself with financier Porche Fairchild.”

  Darcy went still, listening. In the past, Maurice had used his business assets and connections to back a film that studios didn’t want. Most often they came crawling back to him when the film was nominated for Oscars. She had to give him credit, he could spot true talent. He liked to have enough money invested that he had control of the film, too.

  But it wasn’t until the reporter again mentioned production financier Porche Fairchild that Darcy excused herself from her client and moved closer.

  She turned up the volume.

  “Ms. Fairchild has been on sabbatical in Europe, and while her sudden disappearance was at first suspicious, authorities say the doubt has been clarified. Yet, since October three years ago, the reclusive Ms. Fairchild has yet to come forward and show herself.”

  A picture of Porche Fairchild flashed on the screen. Small, blond and sophisticated. And missing?

  “In the financial world, Miss Fairchild was known for bankrolling large-scale productions, but her decision to finance this film with Steele Productions, whose last few films had flopped, became gossip for the rumor mills.” Darcy saw pictures of Maurice and Porche Fairchild shaking hands. Three years out of sight? Didn’t anyone miss this woman? The police must have investigated, Darcy thought, and proven her existence.

  “Maurice Steele had no comment other than how delighted he was to work with Porche and would love to again, and that he hoped she’d make the premiere. The good news for Ben Collier is the prerelease reviews are tremendous. The widely publicized premiere is scheduled for later this month and Nightly Entertainment will be there to show you all the glitz and glamour of the event.”

  “Piper? You okay?”

  Darcy nearly dropped her scissors as a niggling memory flashed in her mind. She looked around. Customers and stylists were staring at her. She flashed a brittle smile and excused herself, hurrying to the back supply room.

  Megan stepped in after her, closing the door.

  “My God, Darcy, you’re pale.”

  She waved that away. “Do you remember those plastic bags of stuff in your deep freeze?”

  “Yeah, they’re still there. It’s clothes and papers, isn’t it?” Megan put her hands on her hips. “I never understood why you kept that stuff.”

  “Because they’re Maurice’s clothes, his papers and a computer disk of pictures from when he beat me. It’s evidence I thought I could use someday. After all this time, I just forgot it was there.”

  “So what’s got you so jittery?”

  Darcy peeked out and told her client she’d be right there, then moved away from the door.

  “Three years ago, Maurice was out very late one night. That was nothing big, he was always wheeling and dealing with actors and directors till dawn sometimes. But this time, when he came back, he was hugging his briefcase like a lifeline. When the maid tried to take it for him, he refused.”

  “I’m still stunned you had a maid, you know. I’ve seen you scrub toilets.”

  Darcy smiled, realizing she’d indeed come full circle since then. “Maurice snapped at me not to disturb him, then went to his library. Then he started drinking.”

  “I don’t see your point. From what you told me, Maurice was controlling.”

  “It’s not the briefcase or his attitude, but the drinking was odd. Normally he’d nurse one drink all night, because he never wanted to be drunk and lose control over himself. But what I noticed was that he wasn’t wearing the same clothes he’d left in that morning.”

  “Okay, that you didn’t mention.”

  “He often went to the gym with a client after work, so I didn’t think much of it until I found him passed out in the chair and the clothes in the fireplace.”

  “The fireplace? He burned his clothes? Was he passed out naked?”

  “No, he burned the clothes that he left wearing that morning. They must have been in his briefcase.”

  “Is that what’s in my freezer?”

  “Yeah. And he had scratches on his hand, too.”

  “Could it have been a bar fight? Or something with an actor or whoever?”

  Darcy roared back. “Maurice? He wouldn’t dare make a public display like that. He’d rather die than lose his cool or his reputation.”

  Megan folded her arms and leaned back against the counter. “See, that’s the difference between Saul and Maurice. Saul wouldn’t have thought for a second about bashing me in a bar full of people.”

  Darcy touched her arm, sympathetic. “Maurice would. He rarely raised his voice. He was all about threats and locks and hitting me where no one else could see it.”

  “So why was he burning the clothes, do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” Darcy paced in the small room, driving her fingers through her short, dark hair. “I wanted out, Meg, and I’d been planning it for a while.” She’d stolen enough of his insomnia medication over the last months to knock him out, had stashed money and clothes and was just waiting for the moment when she could call Rainy and disappear with her baby. “When I saw the burned clothes I thought, if he’s burning a two-thousand-dollar suit and a silk shirt, something must be up. So I took them. Then I copied his date book for that week and replaced the burned clothes with something similar I was giving to charity.”

  Darcy laughed uneasily. “I even burned them to make it look good. He woke when the maid was cleaning it up in the morning and made some excuse that I didn’t hear. She dumped them in the trash.”

  “The maid thing is still throwing me,” Megan said with a smile. “We can get the bags out tonight after closing. But what do you think you’ll find?”

  “I don’t know. Rainy came and helped me get away a couple days after that, so I was spending all my time with Charlie and trying to get my strength back.”

  “So give me your best theory.”

  “Porche Fairchild committed millions to a movie deal with Maurice. I heard him talking to her on the phone a few times. And she’s been missing since October, three years ago.”

  “Missing?”

  Darcy told her about the entertainment news report. “They say she’s accounted for, but no one has seen her. I left Maurice in October, Meg. And Maurice made the deal with her in October and she vanished right around the same time.”

  “You think he killed this woman, don’t you?”

  “He had it in him. If I can prove Maurice had something to do with Porche’s disappearance, he’ll go to jail and Charlie and I will be free.”

  Megan wasn’t convinced. “That’s a really big if, Darcy.”

  “A huge one, I know. It’s a lot to prove.” Short of going to Europe to find the woman, which she couldn’t afford to do, Darcy had to prove the connection between Maurice and Fairchild that night, and well, sadly, hunt o
n the premise that Fairchild was dead.

  “I need to get back to work.”

  “Yeah, and you need to stop drinking so much caffeine, too.”

  Darcy laughed softly as they left the room, but she had a hard time concentrating on anything but those freezer bags of evidence to a crime Maurice might have committed.

  That’s as weak as it got, she thought, but it was a start. She had to move quickly. She couldn’t say why, but she had the distinct feeling that time was about to run out.

  Chapter 4

  S unday was a day of rest for most people, but Darcy was anxious to start searching.

  Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she tracked Maurice’s recent activities easily, bringing up pictures of him coupled with the starlets in his films. She didn’t doubt for a second that he’d cheated on her back when they’d been together. He had his hands up a lot of skirts and in too many pockets. It was one of the reasons she couldn’t get help. Too many people owed Maurice and he owed just as many. Asking the wrong person would have alerted Maurice to her plans.

  This morning, she’d already investigated the pages she’d copied from Maurice’s date book, but there wasn’t anyone listed who wasn’t still alive and visible. She dug deeper, Web Detective helping her along. Flipping through the archived pictures of Variety, she saw one with Maurice’s chauffeur in the background. He’d never gone anywhere without the driver—the man was his paid muscle, content to stand by the car and wait till needed. Darcy hadn’t paid much attention to him because Maurice never allowed him to speak to her directly. She wondered how loyal he really was to Maurice and made a note to find out somehow.

  She almost considered calling Jack for help, but it was still early. He’d been teaching her how to investigate so she was better prepared to rescue women and bring them safely into the underground network. First rule of investigative work, he’d taught her, was follow the money trail and document it on paper. And Maurice had a path a mile wide behind him.