Page 103 of Whispers

Tessa flitted from one apartment in Southern California to the next. She’d supported herself by painting, as her mother had before marrying Dutch, or playing guitar and singing in some less-than-five-star establishments in L.A. A party girl by nature, she’d been picked up for speeding, driving under the influence of intoxicants, and possession of a controlled substance, that substance being cocaine once and marijuana twice. She’d lived with several men who were on the outer fringes of the entertainment business, but, like Miranda, she’d never walked down the aisle and said, “I do.”

And then there was Claire. Beautiful, lively, enigmatic Claire who had run away from Chinook, married an older man and had two children only to find out that her husband was involved in an affair with his son’s girlfriend. “Bastard,” Kane muttered, tossing back another swallow of whiskey.

Claire deserved better. Any woman did. He hoped he never laid eyes on Paul St. John.

Checking his watch, he scowled at the time and wished to God he could avoid the next appointment. But it was necessary if he was ever going to finish his book.

Morning rain had given way to high clouds that were pierced by rays of sunlight and created a warm mist in the forest. Puddles had collected in the low points of the driveway but were already drying as Kane climbed into his Jeep and felt his old war wound act up again. The last person he wanted to talk to today was Weston Taggert, but he needed Harley’s older brother’s take on the events of sixteen years before.

In Chinook he parked in the lot across the street from the newest building in town, a two-story office complex with a view of the bay. Ensconced within were the new headquarters of Taggert Industries. Kane passed through a reception area and took the elevator to the second floor, where a desk was positioned in front of double oak doors.

“Kane Moran,” he told the petite woman with short red hair and matching lips. Wearing a phone headset, she looked up at him through oversize lashes. “I’ve got a meeting with Mr. Taggert.”

Scanning the appointment book, she found his name, punched a button on the telephone to announce him, and within seconds he was seated in a huge corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows. Live trees in enormous clay pots were spaced upon a bronze-colored carpet. A bar was situated against one wall, two couches were tucked into another corner, and in front of the wall of glass stood a massive rosewood desk where Weston was waiting for him.

Wearing a thousand-dollar-plus suit, he was leaning back in his chair, fingers tented under his chin, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Aside from a few lines around the corners of his eyes, he hadn’t aged at all. His jaw was still hard, his body trim, his hair showing no sign of thinning or turning gray. He’d called Kane for a meeting rather than the other way around.

“Moran.” He rose and shook Kane’s hand over the desk. “Have a seat.” Motioning toward the chairs positioned in front of his desk, he asked, “Can I get you something? Coffee or a drink?”

“Don’t bother.” Kane lowered himself into one of the matching oxblood leather club chairs and waited. This was, after all, Weston’s idea.

The CEO of Taggert Industries got straight to the point. “I’ve heard that you’re writing a book about my brother’s death.”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

Kane shifted in the chair and smiled inwardly. So Weston couldn’t wait to find out what was going on. Good. What secrets did Harley’s older brother know? “Too many unanswered questions.”

“It’s been sixteen years.”

Kane felt one side of his mouth twist upward. “Well, I’ve been busy. Just got back to it.”

“You seem to think that writing the book now will serve some purpose,” Weston said, leading him by the nose. Kane didn’t like the feeling, but played along.

“I think Dutch Holland knows more about your brother’s death than he’s saying and I suspect that he—or maybe your father—bought off the local authorities to hush the whole thing up.”

“Why would they do that?”

“An interesting question. Why don’t you take a stab at it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think, Weston.”

“You mean if someone had something to hide. A cover-up?” Weston sounded incredulous. Kane didn’t buy the act.

“Just a theory, but one worth checking out.”

“Why stir up the muck? This thing’s been laid to rest for a long time. Everyone’s gotten over it.” He smiled widely, a grin that was meant to encourage camaraderie yet was as cool as the darkest depths of the sea.

“I haven’t. And I think that since Dutch Holland has decided to run for governor, all his dirty little secrets should come to light.”

“What’s it to you, Moran? You didn’t give a damn about my brother.”

“It’s personal,” Kane said, countering Weston’s icy grin with one of his own. “Between Dutch and me.” He settled onto the small of his back. “Besides, I’m not just interested in Harley’s death, but the events leading up to it,” Kane admitted, willing to give out a little information in order to retrieve some.

“Such as?”