Read Online Swift Justice by Laura DiSilverio - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura DiSilverio
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someone could walk in anytime.
Melissa strode to the door, her heels tap-tapping on the hardwood floor, and flipped over the CLOSED sign. “What do you mean? She won’t take the baby back?” A note of panic flared in her voice, and I saw how close she was to the edge. A few days with an infant can unhinge anyone.
“Ms. Lloyd, I’m afraid your daughter’s dead.”
She stared at me, uncomprehending.
“I was able to trace the blanket left with your—with the baby—and discovered the names of your daughter’s adoptive parents. She lived here in Colorado Springs but had run away several months ago, perhaps when the pregnancy became evident. Her father is, by all accounts, a highly religious man.” That sounded better than “religious whack-job.”
She was still staring at me, glassy-eyed, and I wondered if she’d gone into shock. “Ms. Lloyd, why don’t you sit down?”I put a hand under her unresisting arm and led her to the settee. She sank onto it.
“But she’s dead?”
“The police found her body last night. Her parents identified it today.” I’d gotten a cell phone call from Montgomery while I ate my lunch. “I’m so sorry.”
“Then who will take the baby? I’ve got to get rid of the baby.”
It was my turn to stare. Okay, the woman had never met Elizabeth Sprouse, but the girl was her daughter. Her expression showed no grief, just the drawn brows and thinned lips of someone who’s been grossly inconvenienced. I found her reaction rather chilling and selfish. I tried not to let my thoughts show on my face; it wasn’t part of my job to judge my clients. Heck, if I only worked for people I liked, I wouldn’t be able to afford birdseed for the bear. Instead, I withdrew the photo I’d printed from Aurora Newcastle’s e-mail, the live, vibrant Elizabeth, hoping that actually seeing her daughter might evoke a more compassionate response in Melissa Lloyd.
I got a different response, all right. She took one look at the photo, put her hand to her throat, and gasped, “That’s Lizzy!” Then she crumpled sideways in a faint.
Shit. I’d never had a client pass out on me before. Unless you counted Bo Remington, who drank so much Wild Turkey and soda the evening I presented him with photos of his wife canoodling with the church choir director—a woman—that he slipped under the table and the bar staff had to pour him into my car so I could drive him home. Divorce work left me feeling slimy, and it’s an area I don’t go for anymore, unless I’m really, really desperate for income. Like now. As I pulled abottle of water from my purse to splash on Melissa’s face, I wondered how Gigi would do on long stakeouts with a camera. She probably didn’t know an f-stop from a bus stop.
I patted Melissa’s face gently. She groaned and rubbed a hand over her cheek. I helped her to a sitting position and handed her the water bottle. “Are you okay? Who’s Lizzy?”
She gulped half the bottle, her hand shaking so badly that some of it dribbled down her chin. She swiped it away with the back of her hand. “Where’s the photo?”
I handed it to her, ready to catch her if she pitched over again. She tapped it with one finger. “Lizzy Jones. She worked for me off and on. She sewed curtains, slipcovers, stuff like that on a per-piece basis. You’re sure she was . . . was . . . ?”
I stared at her, watching the implications sink in. “Your daughter tracked you down and persuaded you to hire her,” I said. “How long did she work for you?”
She took a deep breath. “I guess she first came in last November. I’d have to check my records.”
“Do you have a lot of high schoolers working for you?” It didn’t seem plausible to me, not with an interior design business. Maybe if she’d owned a Wendy’s franchise.
“She told me she was nineteen, that she was married to a soldier at Fort Carson who was deployed to Iraq and she wanted to keep busy while he was gone, make a few extra
Melissa strode to the door, her heels tap-tapping on the hardwood floor, and flipped over the CLOSED sign. “What do you mean? She won’t take the baby back?” A note of panic flared in her voice, and I saw how close she was to the edge. A few days with an infant can unhinge anyone.
“Ms. Lloyd, I’m afraid your daughter’s dead.”
She stared at me, uncomprehending.
“I was able to trace the blanket left with your—with the baby—and discovered the names of your daughter’s adoptive parents. She lived here in Colorado Springs but had run away several months ago, perhaps when the pregnancy became evident. Her father is, by all accounts, a highly religious man.” That sounded better than “religious whack-job.”
She was still staring at me, glassy-eyed, and I wondered if she’d gone into shock. “Ms. Lloyd, why don’t you sit down?”I put a hand under her unresisting arm and led her to the settee. She sank onto it.
“But she’s dead?”
“The police found her body last night. Her parents identified it today.” I’d gotten a cell phone call from Montgomery while I ate my lunch. “I’m so sorry.”
“Then who will take the baby? I’ve got to get rid of the baby.”
It was my turn to stare. Okay, the woman had never met Elizabeth Sprouse, but the girl was her daughter. Her expression showed no grief, just the drawn brows and thinned lips of someone who’s been grossly inconvenienced. I found her reaction rather chilling and selfish. I tried not to let my thoughts show on my face; it wasn’t part of my job to judge my clients. Heck, if I only worked for people I liked, I wouldn’t be able to afford birdseed for the bear. Instead, I withdrew the photo I’d printed from Aurora Newcastle’s e-mail, the live, vibrant Elizabeth, hoping that actually seeing her daughter might evoke a more compassionate response in Melissa Lloyd.
I got a different response, all right. She took one look at the photo, put her hand to her throat, and gasped, “That’s Lizzy!” Then she crumpled sideways in a faint.
Shit. I’d never had a client pass out on me before. Unless you counted Bo Remington, who drank so much Wild Turkey and soda the evening I presented him with photos of his wife canoodling with the church choir director—a woman—that he slipped under the table and the bar staff had to pour him into my car so I could drive him home. Divorce work left me feeling slimy, and it’s an area I don’t go for anymore, unless I’m really, really desperate for income. Like now. As I pulled abottle of water from my purse to splash on Melissa’s face, I wondered how Gigi would do on long stakeouts with a camera. She probably didn’t know an f-stop from a bus stop.
I patted Melissa’s face gently. She groaned and rubbed a hand over her cheek. I helped her to a sitting position and handed her the water bottle. “Are you okay? Who’s Lizzy?”
She gulped half the bottle, her hand shaking so badly that some of it dribbled down her chin. She swiped it away with the back of her hand. “Where’s the photo?”
I handed it to her, ready to catch her if she pitched over again. She tapped it with one finger. “Lizzy Jones. She worked for me off and on. She sewed curtains, slipcovers, stuff like that on a per-piece basis. You’re sure she was . . . was . . . ?”
I stared at her, watching the implications sink in. “Your daughter tracked you down and persuaded you to hire her,” I said. “How long did she work for you?”
She took a deep breath. “I guess she first came in last November. I’d have to check my records.”
“Do you have a lot of high schoolers working for you?” It didn’t seem plausible to me, not with an interior design business. Maybe if she’d owned a Wendy’s franchise.
“She told me she was nineteen, that she was married to a soldier at Fort Carson who was deployed to Iraq and she wanted to keep busy while he was gone, make a few extra
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