Front Page Affair. Jennifer MoreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
the street and watched his rearview mirror. Sure enough, the BMW pulled out of the lot. Who would follow him and why? Would his ex-wife go to such extremes? She’d been angry he’d appealed the divorce terms. He was only disputing the credit card balances, but she had thrown a fit. She’d never liked being married to a mere engineer. She had high hopes of him soaring to the top, running the company and earning an equally top salary. He wasn’t opposed to making lots of money; he just didn’t want the job that went along with it. Certain executives he’d observed were only as good as their ability to warp the truth. Only one line needed to be on their résumé—how many years of experience they had warping the truth.
And Serena had expected him to become that. It had led to their demise. Why did some women think they could change a man? What was wrong with the version they married? Braden didn’t get it. He didn’t get women.
Engineering was in his blood. He’d spent countless hours taking things apart and putting them back together when he was a kid. He was a natural at math and enjoyed blowing things up. He was happy with his job. But Serena didn’t care about that.
He checked the mirror again. The BMW was several cars back. Serena was many things, but he didn’t think she was the type to hire a thug to scare him into dropping the appeal. And there was only one way to find out who was in that BMW, and why. When he was a teenager, he learned how to avoid bullies and was afraid of defending himself. Now a grown man, he was no longer afraid and knew how to defend himself.
Turning a corner, he drove slowly until the SUV appeared, and then went into a parking lot of a small, organic market. Leaning over, he opened his glove box and took out a big flashlight, covertly seeing the BMW park along the street.
Braden got out of his Subaru and headed toward the vehicle, careful to keep cars within close proximity in case he needed to take cover. There was a man inside. He was wearing a baseball cap and a dark blue, lightweight jacket. He was a big man. Seeing his approach, long, solid flashlight swinging at his side, the man stared at him a second or two. He hadn’t expected his prey to become the predator. He also didn’t appear afraid of that. Calmly, the man restarted the BMW engine that he’d presumptuously shut off. Then he looked at Braden again, as though making sure he hadn’t misinterpreted his approach.
Nope. No misinterpretation. Braden fully intended to use this flashlight if he had to. But the man wisely decided not to go up against him. The man steered out into the street.
Braden jogged to the sidewalk and read the license plate. After memorizing the number, he headed back toward his Subaru. Whoever the man was hadn’t anticipated Braden would notice the tail, much less take action. Not many knew that side of him. To most, he was an average guy. But he was also someone who couldn’t be pushed around. Ever since he was a kid, he’d worked hard at that.
But this was a situation that could go beyond kickboxing and target practice in his free time. Why was someone tailing him?
Back inside his car, his father’s tone over the phone reclaimed him. Was the reason the man in the BMW had singled him out related to whatever he’d go home to find out from his parents?
Fifteen minutes were too long. As he turned onto his street, he saw his parents’ car in the driveway of his middle-class, three-bedroom house. They had a key and must be waiting for him inside. A sense of foreboding kept him on alert.
After going through the garage, he stepped into his open kitchen, spotting his parents across the island counter. His mother stood rigidly beside the bulky, round pine table and his dad rose up from a chair, pushing it in and standing behind it. In their late fifties, they looked a decade younger. His dad was tall and fit, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved white, pink and gray finely striped shirt. His hazel eyes were heavy with apprehension and his salt-and-pepper hair uncombed. His mother kept her hair dyed the chocolate brown of her youth and her petite body in shape. As usual, she was put together in big, stylish silver-and-blue earrings, a matching necklace and designer slacks and blouse. The whites around her green eyes were red from crying. Braden had gotten his eyes from his mother and his dark hair from his father, although his dad wore his shorter.
It was difficult to see them so shaken.
“We have something to tell you,” his mother said, her still-beautiful face ravaged with strain.
“It’s your sister,” his dad finished for her.
So, it was his sister. Her trouble wasn’t over. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“She’s gone missing.”
Missing might mean dead. She had gone to the British Virgin Islands on vacation last week. Now she was missing.
Damn it. What would he do if he never saw her again? He and his sister were close in age and had done a lot together. They lost contact when they went to college, and then he’d gotten married. She hadn’t married and was the top executive he’d never be.
“How long?”
“She hasn’t answered her phone in two days.” His dad leaned on the back of the chair, his hands gripping the top, pale wood bar.
Why hadn’t they called him sooner? He subdued his reproach. They probably didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily. Now it was necessary. His parents hadn’t achieved success by being impulsive. His dad was an architect who’d started a log business that provided well for his family. His mother didn’t need her psychology degree, but she practiced out of their home.
“Has she called you?” his mother asked, looping her arm with his dad’s.
“No. Not since before she left.” She’d been upset over losing her job. “Have you talked to the police there?”
His mother began crying softly.
Freeing his arm from hers, his dad pulled her closer. “According to them, she never checked in at the Frenchman’s Point Hotel, but the manager there said he saw her get into a taxi.”
That offered a small glimmer of hope. “Where did the taxi take her?”
“The detective didn’t know. Neither did the hotel manager. He only saw her get into the taxi.”
“Have they questioned the driver?”
His mother’s crying deepened into a wrenching sound.
“He was found shot to death later that night.”
Murdered? The sting of shock bled into deflated hope. Tatum could be in serious trouble.
“The airline confirmed she boarded her plane,” his dad said unnecessarily. If she was seen getting into a taxi, she must have made it to the island. “The detective assigned to the case said she didn’t rent a car,” his dad rambled on, a father distraught. “He couldn’t find evidence that she took a cab there. The other taxi drivers there didn’t have a record and didn’t recognize her picture.”
Frenchman’s Cay was an island off the coast of Tortola. “Who is the detective?”
“Monty Crawford.”
At least he was intent on searching. “Did Tatum mention she might meet someone there?”
“No.” His dad shook his head, barely hanging on to his composure. “We’ve searched through her things here in Denver. Nothing is missing and nothing is out of place that we can tell.”
Braden contemplated telling them about the BMW and just as quickly decided to hold off. They had enough trauma to deal with right now. He’d go search for his sister and keep them informed as much as possible. The detective may seem to be doing that for them, but Braden could not stay here and wait. He had to do something. Finding a missing person wasn’t his area of expertise, however. He wasn’t proficient in this sort of thing, especially on foreign land, but he did know someone who was.
* * *
Halfway through their Monopoly game, Arizona Ivy had had enough. “I’m twenty-five. I can make my own decisions.”
At her sharp tone, her