Two Sisters

CHAPTER TWO

JOHN STOOD in the breezeway of the town homes Wednesday evening, by the mailboxes, and watched old Mrs. LeBlanc totter away, a polite smile plastered on his face as he asked himself, for the umpteenth time, why he didn’t just move. The place had a few people his age, but most of the residents were ancient tiny women who were constantly trying to fix him up with divorced grandnieces or granddaughters who had five kids. Before he’d come here—after Marsha had gotten the house—he’d lived in an apartment, an anonymous place where no one spoke to anyone. Then his mother had passed away and left him the town house. It’d seemed easier to move in than to sell the place, and it was in a safe neighborhood. He never worried about bringing Lisa over.

There were the little old ladies, though, and women like Elizabeth Benoit to contend with. He took two steps and was tossing the junk mail from his box into the nearest trash container when the woman in question came around the corner.

She had her briefcase in one hand and her purse in the other. Tucked under one arm was a dark blue folder with the words “Benoit Consulting—Personal and Confidential” printed on the outside in silver script. His eyes went to Elizabeth herself. Her dark gold suit, like the black one she’d had on the last time he’d seen her, looked as though it’d been made for her, the jacket hugging her figure—but not too tightly—and the skirt ending at a tantalizing point just above her knees. The color was just right for her, her ivory skin glowing from its reflection, reminding him of his mother’s translucent plates still sitting in the china cabinet in his dining room. Everything about Elizabeth Benoit was polished, perfect and gorgeous—except for the ferocious frown marring her forehead.

Seeing John, she pulled up short. Her frown vanished and was replaced with studied politeness.

Normally he would have nodded, turned on his heel and left, but instead he stood and stared at her. She was the first to break eye contact. John told himself to walk away, but his feet seemed fixed to the sidewalk. She leaned past him and unlocked her mailbox. Her key ring, he noticed, had a Mercedes-Benz symbol on it. She reached inside but her fingers came out empty—she hadn’t even received the junk mail he had. When she straightened, she looked so crushed he spoke without thinking.

“No mail?”

She lifted her gaze, and he was shocked into silence. A smart-aleck reply, a cold shoulder, even a curt go-to-hell wouldn’t have surprised him as much as the sight of her exquisite dark eyes filling with tears.

Before he could react, Mrs. Beetleman from 10D came around the corner. She glanced curiously at Elizabeth, then turned her twenty-thousand-dollar face to John and seemed about to speak. Nodding quickly, John engineered their escape, taking Elizabeth’s elbow and leading her away before the old woman could ask what was wrong.

They crossed to a nearby iron bench, which was shaded by a huge pin oak. Elizabeth Benoit sat down heavily, and John, shielding her from Mrs. Beetleman’s puzzled stare, took the seat beside her, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to her. She nodded her thanks and dabbed her eyes.

When she finished, she stared at the square of white cotton for a second, then finally looked up. “I haven’t seen a man with a real handkerchief in his pocket since my father died.”

Her voice was a throaty contralto and it washed over John with a heavy warmth. “I’m a cop,” he said without thinking. “Always gotta be prepared.”

She nodded as if his ridiculous answer made perfect sense. For a moment they sat side by side in the hot twilight. The traffic noise on the side street and the cries of children playing in the neighborhood park kept the moment from the awkwardness of total silence.

Finally he spoke. “Is there something I can do for you? You look upset.”

To his horror, her eyes filled up again. She shook her head, then answered unexpectedly, her voice huskier than before, the words tight and angry. “It’s my sister,” she said. “I can’t find her. I thought she might have at least sent me a postcard.”

“Are you saying she’s missing?”

She nodded. “Yes. She came over to my place for a birthday celebration. Then we…we had an argument and I haven’t seen her since. And I’m really worried.” She looked down at her hands and shook her head, speaking again, this time softly. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” She made a motion as if to get up. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be bothering you…”

He reached out and put his hand on her arm. She seemed startled by the touch and he instantly pulled back, but not before his brain had registered the sensation. Skin so warm and soft it was sinful. “Please…don’t leave. Tell me.”

She hesitated, then after a moment she sank back down to the bench. “I know you’re a policeman. Mrs. Shaftel told me.”

She blinked suddenly, as if she’d given away a secret. And maybe she had, he thought. She’d obviously had a conversation about him with her neighbor. Did that mean she’d been as aware of him as he was of her?

She spoke again, quickly this time. “What kind of cop are you?”

“I’m a detective,” he answered. “Homicide.”

She nodded, almost to herself.

“How old is your sister?” he asked. “Is she a juvenile?”

“No…no.” She shook her head. “She’s my age. We’re twins, identical twins. We turned twenty-eight on Sunday.”

Warning bells sounded in his head. Twenty-eight. What was he thinking? His thirty-seven suddenly seemed ancient. He was surprised she hadn’t called him sir. It always killed him when they did that.

“Twenty-eight,” he repeated. “So she’s an adult. No runaway situation. Maybe she took a trip. Went somewhere for a while and just didn’t say anything to you.”

“She’d tell me first, probably even borrow money from me.” She licked her lips, then pulled her bottom one in between her teeth. “She took my car, too.”

He kept his expression neutral. “You could file a stolen vehicle report.”

“I don’t want to do that.” Her voice was stronger now, more in control. He could see the shell of her usual demeanor coming back into place. “I’ve reported her missing. That’s all I’m going to do. I don’t want her hauled in or anything.”

He shrugged. “Might be the easiest way to find her.”

“No.”

No further explanation, no other words to back it up. Just “no.”

“Does she live with you? I don’t think I’ve seen her around.”

“She has her own apartment at The Pines. On lower Montrose.” She sent him a quick glance, then looked back down at her hands. Lower Montrose was a long way from where they sat—not in miles but in financial terms. It wasn’t the best part of Houston. “She works…over by the Galleria.”

John waited a moment, then spoke again. “Do you think she’s in trouble?”

Her eyes jerked to his, the gaze narrowing. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re awfully worried.”

“Wouldn’t you be if your sister had disappeared?”

For one short moment his muscles in his chest tightened painfully, making it hard to breathe. He didn’t have a sister. Not now. When Beverly had been alive, though, he hadn’t really appreciated her. What he wouldn’t give to have that time back so he could redo it, make it right, so he could love her as Elizabeth obviously loved her sister. He pushed the thought away.

“If I had one, and she was twenty-eight, I’d figure she’s old enough to know what she’s doing.”

Her expression softened. “I should, too, I guess, but April’s not…a responsible twenty-eight.”

“Who is in their twenties? Thirty-something maybe…forty-something probably, but twenty?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

She bristled. “I’m twenty-eight and I’m certainly responsible.”

He sent her a measuring stare and silently agreed. There were shadows in those beautiful dark eyes and a tenseness in her face he hadn’t noticed before. Hell, she’d probably been responsible when she was eight, much less twenty-eight. Why? What demons did she have no one else knew about?

“I can see that,” he said finally. “It’s obvious or you wouldn’t be worried about…” He waited for her to supply the name.

“April,” she said reluctantly. “April Benoit. And I’m Elizabeth.”

“I’m John Mallory.”

With the exchange of names, her attitude shifted and became even more remote. A thick silence grew between them, then she broke it by speaking stiffly. “I’m sorry, Detective Mallory, to dump all this on you. The strain’s getting to me, I guess. Believe me, I usually don’t tell strangers intimate details of my life like this.”

“It’s John,” he said, “and don’t worry about it. I’d be happy to look into it for you.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, no. Please. That’s not why I was telling you.”

“I know that,” he said. “But I don’t mind. It’d be easy for me. I can check some things Missing Persons might not get around to so fast.” If ever.

“I appreciate it, but…” Rising from the bench, she ran a hand over her jacket, a reassuring move as if checking her defensive shell. “I really can’t ask you to do that.”

John stood, too. He was a tall man, an inch over six feet. When he looked in her eyes, they weren’t that far beneath his own. “You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

Her expression closed, but not before he saw a glimpse of how she really felt. She wanted his assistance, wanted it desperately, but for some reason, couldn’t allow herself to accept it.

“No.” Her voice was firm now. “I can’t let you do that.”

His curiosity got the better of him, and he pushed, more than he usually did. “I’m offering you some help. Why don’t you want it?”

She blinked at his bluntness, a sweep of dark lashes falling over her eyes before she looked at him again. “April will turn up sooner or later,” she said in a stilted voice. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer, but I don’t want to pull you into our personal problems. I can handle it by myself. I always have.”

Something in the way she spoke took his curiosity to another level, it raised his antennae. His cop antennae. “You have some personal problems?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Doesn’t everyone?”

He didn’t answer, but let the silence build. Most people felt uncomfortable with the quiet. He found out all kinds of interesting things when they started to talk to fill the void. Elizabeth Benoit simply stared at him.

“Then she’s not in any kind of trouble?”

She hesitated only a second, no more. “Not that I’m aware of.”

They stared at each other a moment longer, then she extended her hand. “Thank you for listening to me, Mr. Mallory. I won’t bother you again.”

He took her fingers in his, the touch impersonal, the message clear. “I hope things work out,” he said, his voice equally neutral.

They shook hands, then Elizabeth turned and walked away. John watched her until she disappeared around the corner.

SHE COULDN’T get him out of her mind.

The following morning, as Elizabeth sat at her desk and stared out the window, all she could think about was John Mallory’s offer. God, it’d been hard to turn him down! She’d wanted so badly to accept his help, but it’d been so long since she’d trusted anyone she’d said no without even thinking. He’d looked at her with such sympathy, though, such patience. Something in his gaze had made her want to trust him. Maybe because he’d listened to her story without even blinking. Of course, he was a cop and that did make a difference, she supposed. She shook her head in disbelief. How long had it been since she’d let anyone see her cry? Since she’d cried, period?

Had she lost her mind?

She focused on the traffic outside her window. It was as snarled and tangled as her nerves, but she knew one thing for certain. No one ever got a free ride. No one. People—men, especially—didn’t offer their help without expecting something in return. She’d been on her own, taking care of April and her mother, since she was twelve years old, and if she hadn’t learned that particular lesson, she’d learned nothing at all.

Why did he want to help her, anyway? Was he simply that nice? Was anyone?

Just the previous week she’d seen John and a little girl—his daughter, she presumed—crossing the street out front. He’d had the child’s hand in his, and they were obviously going to the park. Elizabeth had watched them from her living-room window, a lump forming in her throat as she’d remembered holding her own father’s hand. Until his death, she’d thought he’d hung the moon and the stars, as well. Everything he did was perfect. He’d supported them all, Elizabeth, April and their mother, in high style, and he’d seemed to be the most loving, wonderful man on earth. The best father a child could possibly want. A faultless husband, too. Until things had changed.

Her intercom buzzed, and she answered, her eyes focused on the window and the traffic below, her mind focused on her father and the child she’d been.

“Linda Tremont is here.” Betty sounded worried, and Elizabeth tensed. Her secretary was usually unflappable. “She doesn’t have an appointment and I tried to get her to wait, but she’s insisting.” Betty lowered her voice. “She seems quite upset. Can you see her?”

Elizabeth held back a groan. She didn’t want to deal with this now, not with April on her mind, but she couldn’t put it off forever. “Send her in.”

A second later the door opened. As Linda Tremont crossed the carpeted expanse between the door and her mahogany desk, Elizabeth noticed that the woman seemed to have aged ten years since the first time they’d met. Behind the glasses she wore there were puffy circles of worry under her eyes, and her mouth was a thin line of tension. Even her posture was stiff and anxious.

She perched nervously on the edge of one of the pair of wingback chairs in front of the desk. “Have you finished the report yet? I need to know,” she said without preamble. “I heard from another investor this week who’s very worried. Word’s getting out that Tony’s being investigated—”

“Mrs. Tremont—”

“Call me Linda,” she broke in, her voice rising slightly. “I prefer anyone who gives me bad news to at least use my first name.”

Linda looked as if she might shatter, and Elizabeth gazed at her with compassion. She liked her and could certainly understand her worry.

“I haven’t finished my report yet,” Elizabeth said gently. “I’ve done some preliminary work, but I can’t give you any details, and I’m sure you understand why.”

“But you contacted me! Why can’t you tell me more?”

“I had to talk to you in order to obtain your records, and you’ve been very cooperative, which I appreciate. But I can’t get into the facts of the case with you, Linda, I’m sorry. That’s just not how I work.”

“Don’t give me the specifics, then,” she urged. “But please…I need to know for my clients’ sake as much as for my own. Is…is Tony in trouble?”

Elizabeth sipped from a glass of water on her desk, trying to buy time and figure out how to say what Linda needed to hear without giving away too much. She had to be very careful. She chose her words with precision. “Are you familiar with the term churning?”

“Of course I am. That’s when brokers have their clients buy and sell stock just to generate more commissions for themselves.” Her eyes grew large. “Are you saying Tony’s been churning accounts?”

Elizabeth kept quiet. S.E.C. investigations were not secret affairs; they couldn’t be because of their complex nature and the longevity of the task, but Elizabeth had her own set of rules. She’d already said more than she usually did.

Taking Elizabeth’s silence for the answer it was, Linda Tremont removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “How much?” She didn’t look up.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Linda Tremont’s voice went up. “Thousands? Millions? Can’t you give me some idea?”

Elizabeth glanced down at her desk, then up again. “If churning were involved, and I’m not saying it is, then I’d point to the latter figure as more accurate than the former.”

Linda gasped. “My God! I…I can’t believe this!”

Again Elizabeth stayed silent. She liked to be more certain when it came to figures, which her superiors at the S.E.C. appreciated. She’d given them some details about the investigation, but not enough for them to start legal action. Yet. She wanted to be absolutely confident that was necessary, and while she had a strong suspicion it was, for her own peace of mind, she needed just a little more.

The older woman slumped back into the chair, almost shrinking before Elizabeth’s eyes. “I was afraid it wasn’t good, but millions….”

“I’m not finished yet, Linda. Don’t jump to any conclusions before the report is final.”

Linda looked up, her expression so bleak Elizabeth almost couldn’t bear to finish what she was going to say. “When I’m done, the total will be more accurate.”

She suddenly wished she’d skipped that extra cup of coffee. Her stomach felt as if it wanted to rebel.

“What’s he going to do?” Linda Tremont looked even more defenseless and uncertain without her glasses. “He’s my baby brother….”

Elizabeth had met Tony Masterson twice while gathering information. In his early thirties, he had the polished sophisticated look of a man you could trust. She could see how blue-haired ladies would have been happy to hand over their money to him. He’d assured Elizabeth that nothing was wrong, and if any irregularities were found, his underlings would know more about it than he would.

Linda had told Elizabeth a little about him, nervously, during one of their meetings. Almost apologetically she’d explained that he’d played tournament bridge all through college, and when he’d graduated with a business degree, he’d used the contacts of his bridge players and fraternity brothers to lead them and their elderly relatives straight into his family’s financial-planning company, Masterson Investments. Where he’d promptly begun to take advantage of them, Elizabeth had since realized.

“I need to set up another meeting with Tony to go over some points. Is he around?”

Linda’s lips tightened. “He’s in Europe this week, but he’ll be back on Friday. He’s speaking at a conference.” She paused. “Have you contacted the S.E.C.?”

“I haven’t given them a final report since I’m not done yet. Once I finish and send them everything, they’ll start an official investigation and assign one of their own attorneys to go over everything.”

Elizabeth didn’t generally offer advice, but the empathy she felt for Linda Tremont made her want to help. Putting her elbows on the desk, Elizabeth leaned closer. “If I were you, I’d get a good lawyer, Linda. Leo Stevens is excellent. He’s with Baker and Tornago.” The woman on the other side of the desk was so pale she looked as if she might faint. “Would you like me to call him for you?” Elizabeth asked softly. “I’d be happy to introduce you—”

“No!” Linda shook her head, almost violently, then seemed to realize what she was doing and stopped. “I…I’ll call him, myself. I…I appreciate the offer, but I have to take care of this on my own. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.”

“When will you finish the report?”

“Within the next two weeks. I’ve been working on it mostly at home. I can concentrate better there.”

Linda rose painfully and walked to the door. Then she turned and asked, “Is there any way you could, well, finish it sooner? The longer it goes on, the worse it will be. For everyone.”

Elizabeth hesitated. With April’s disappearance, she couldn’t get her regular work done, much less hurry things up.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t so important.”

“It’s not that,” Elizabeth answered finally. “I…I have some family problems of my own right now that I’m trying to deal with, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry. Nothing too serious, I hope.” Linda stood by the door expectantly, obviously waiting for more.

“My sister’s missing,” Elizabeth said bluntly. “We met for our birthday dinner Sunday, then the next morning she was gone. Along with my car. I haven’t seen her since.”

A disconcerting silence fell between the two women before Linda spoke awkwardly. “I’m so sorry. You don’t have any idea where she might be?”

“Not really. I’ve called the police and reported it. That’s all I can do.”

The expression on Linda’s face shifted. It held something Elizabeth couldn’t read, but whatever it was it contained more than a hint of disapproval. “You called the police?” she echoed.

“Yes, and I filed a missing person’s report. It’s all I can do.”

“Of course. But try not to worry. I’m sure she’ll turn up.” She paused. Then said, “Just let me know about the report as soon as you can.” With that Linda Tremont left, closing the door softly behind her.

Try not to worry? What kind of advice was that? How could you not worry if your sister had disappeared—even if she had done it before.

Elizabeth swung her chair around and looked out the office window, her mind going right back to the subject it’d been on before. John Mallory. Brown eyes, a strong jaw and a tough lean body that looked as though it could hold its own in any battle.

She’d seen him before. When April was visiting one day, she’d asked Elizabeth who the “cowboy” was in the unit at the end. Elizabeth had glanced out her window and recognized his white starched shirt, the snug jeans, the heeled boots. A lot of men in Texas dressed that way—it was almost a uniform—but on John, the clothes looked just right. For some perverse reason, Elizabeth had pretended not to know who April was asking about.

But Elizabeth had known all right, had surprisingly even found herself curious about the tall man in the polished boots. Usually she didn’t notice men. She’d had one serious relationship since she’d left college, but it hadn’t worked out. She’d dated another attorney, Jack Montgomery, for almost six months. He’d wanted a home with a wife who stayed in it, and Elizabeth couldn’t do that. She wasn’t wife and mother material. She’d told him so and he’d never called again.

That was part of the reason she’d turned down John’s help. Slipping up and pouring out her personal problems was one thing—a mistake, sure, but not unrecoverable. Any more contact might lead to something else, though, and she wasn’t interested in that. Not now.

IT WAS AFTER SIX when John pushed open the heavy glass door of the high rise that housed Benoit Consulting. He wasn’t really prepared for it to open, but it did, gliding soundlessly outward. He knew Elizabeth worked late most nights—at home her lights never came on before seven or sometimes eight—but he hadn’t really thought the whole building would be open at this hour. A dark-haired Hispanic woman looked up as he entered. To get past her, an electronic card reader on the wall had to first be satisfied. Apparently there were a lot of private consultants in the complex, sharing facilities.

“May I help you?” she asked pleasantly.

He skipped the badge routine and just smiled. “I’m a friend of Elizabeth Benoit’s, Benoit Consulting. Is she still around by any chance?”

“I’ll check.”

A moment later the receptionist hung up the phone, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, sir, but it appears as if Ms. Benoit’s office is closed. No one is answering.” The woman frowned, then snapped her fingers. “She might be in the gym downstairs, working out. Someone will have to buzz you in, but you could try there.”

“Great, thanks.” He turned and left, the plush carpeting swallowing the sound of his footsteps.

As he waited for the elevator, John wondered just what in the hell he was doing there, anyway. When he’d picked up the phone at his desk earlier that day to call information for Elizabeth’s work number, he’d half hoped they wouldn’t have a listing. They did, however, and then he’d called the number to get the address. He didn’t know exactly what she did, but she had the look of someone who would want columns to add up properly. Putting the matter aside, he’d worked a little longer, then headed home for a quick bite, intending to return to the station. Marsha had succeeded in screwing up his time with Lisa, after all, so he’d decided to work all evening and catch up on the mountain of papers hiding his desk. It’d tame his anger a bit. Somewhere between Central and his place, though, he’d aimed the truck west.