Page 70 of Killer Body

Once there, I don’t know what to do next. The desk, on large black casters, turned to face the ocean, is glass with a greenish cast to it. Bobby Warren heads for the teak-backed, black upholstered chair behind it. Then he just collapses—all of him, not only his body, but his skin, his gaze, his attitude.

“I can’t help you,” I say, “if you don’t let me help you.”

“Rikki.” I feel Lucas at my back before I hear his voice, a voice that, at this minute, I’m not sure I can trust.

“She’s right.” Tears squeeze out of Bobby Warren’s eyes. He jerks his head toward Lucas. “I have to talk to someone, Luke.”

“We can discuss that later.”

“No, I do. I really have to talk to someone right now.” He returns to me. “Jules called me just now on my cell phone. Do you believe that, or do you think I’m a crazy old man?”

How do I answer? I stand before him, trying to tug down the sweater I wore because I wanted Lucas to notice it. He did.Bobby Warren hasn’t, thankfully, and now he’s far too distracted to be interested in it or me.

“If you say it’s true, I’m sure it is.”

He nods, his dark eyes so unfocussed that, for a moment, I consider calling 911 or taking him to an emergency clinic. He’s aged a decade easily since the first time I spoke with him. And he’s worried.

“No one will believe me,” he says. “Not even Luke believes me.”

Then it comes to me, how to know for sure. I move closer to him. “She called you on your cell phone?”

He nods, picks it up from the glass desk. “I know it’s my Jules. She said she missed our calls. She always called me every morning for motivation before she started her day. The voice was muffled, but I know it was hers.”

“There’s an easy way to prove that.” I can barely breathe, so I turn away and stare at the safe black-gray-white painting on the opposite wall. “Your cell keeps a record of all phone calls, doesn’t it?”

“I guess so.” He holds it up, in front of his nose, the way my uncle George, Carey’s late husband, used to hold a magazine when he was trying to read without his glasses.

“Bobby.” Lucas’s voice booms behind me.

I move closer, put out my hand. “Do you mind?”

“Bobby, we need to talk about this.”

“Why? I have nothing to hide, and this girl’s trying to help.”

“She’s trying to get a story.”

“Maybe she’ll get the right story this time, and help us find Jules.” He hands me the phone. “You’ll help us, won’t you?”

“I’ll try.” I can’t help shooting Lucas a look of triumph.

I press the up arrow on the black keypad and the rectangular screen lights green:01 New Calls; 21 Total Calls.

“Do you see anything?” Bobby asks.

“There is a new call on here.” I hear a sigh of what sounds like relief from Lucas. He must have thought Bobby made it all up, that it was some alcoholic fantasy. It still could be, of course. That one call could be hours old. “We’ll find out in just a second.” I press the arrow again.

Wireless Caller.

“Do you know this number?” I offer the phone to Bobby, then realize he can’t see. Vanity. The old man won’t wear glasses.

As he fumbles, I lean down beside him and am almost overcome by heavy aftershave unsuccessfully masking bourbon. It reminds me of Rochelle McArthur’s overdone scent, her attempt to hide the smell of her nicotine habit.

I take the phone from him again, press the talk key and put the phone to my ear.

“It’s ringing.”

That surprises me. Not a telemarketer, a real phone number, connecting me to a real person. Maybe.