Secrets Of The Rose. Lois Richer
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than the aforementioned attribute of pure bossiness.” Tim shook his head. “Forget about our personality differences, Shelby. Go and do what you have to do.”
“I’ll do it,” she agreed. “But I hate it. We screen very carefully. Once our staff have been cleared, we do periodic updates and yearly investigations. It’s all part of the very specialized work we do. I don’t see how anyone in our offices could be implicated in this.”
“Nor do I.” Daniel walked along beside them, his forehead pleated in a frown. “But I’ll be glad to have you there, Shelby. I’d like to keep this as low profile as we can.”
“Is something wrong with the company, Daniel?”
He appeared to debate his answer. Finally he spoke, his voice soft, reflective. “Now’s not the time to burden you with work, Shel. Let’s just concentrate on Aimee. The rest can wait for a more appropriate time.”
He wasn’t telling her everything, and she knew it. But for now, Shelby wouldn’t press him. Daniel might be holding his own counsel until they could speak freely. Or he might not yet be sure of his facts. One thing she knew—Daniel was as loyal as any of her employees. Grant had trusted him implicitly. So did she.
Daniel may not want to bother her now, but if something was seriously wrong at Finders, she intended to find out during her own probe. Finders, Inc. had gained its reputation because of its specialized capability to locate and recover without eliciting undue attention. One rotten apple could spoil the entire business; seriously threaten their ability to handle confidential work, especially those government contracts they periodically won. So she’d do whatever she could to ensure that Daniel’s investigation would stay hush-hush. For now.
Shelby left home to the tune of Esmeralda’s grumblings about the policemen who’d moved into the house she’d lovingly cared for these past twenty years, men who couldn’t get enough of her double chocolate cookies, men who left footprints from the rose garden on her clean carpet. Shelby left, knowing the older woman was just as upset about losing Aimee as she was. Looking after the officers would keep Esmeralda busy.
But as Shelby drove through the security gates and onto the lot of the company that she and Grant had built, a shiver of trepidation crept up her spine—which was probably natural. After all, she hadn’t returned to Finders since Grant’s death. Perhaps that accounted for the foreboding she felt as she watched the security camera track her steps, punched in her pass code to transmit the secure sequence that sent the elevator to the top floor. The feeling didn’t lessen when she unlocked her office door.
Everything was as she’d left it, though Joanie, her secretary, had already pulled the files and placed them on her desk. And apparently the cleaners had also been in for there wasn’t a speck of dust on the clear glass surfaces. When she caught a glimpse of the photo on her desk, a snapshot of her and Grant laughing at each other on a catamaran off the Sicilian coast, her heart took over and she struggled to remain calm.
He’d died here, on these grounds.
The knowledge stabbed anew, but time had taught her how to handle the pain. Shelby drew in deep breaths, forced herself to turn away, focus on the names numbered on a list beside the files. She sank down in the comfortable chair and began an intense scrutiny of each. When Shelby glanced up two hours later she was not a whit closer to finding a betrayer.
Aimee’s photo on the window ledge stared at her, the image so real she reached out to touch it before reality impinged.
Why had she thought she’d find an answer here?
Whoever had taken Aimee had gone to incredible lengths to leave no trace.
Her field staff were skilled at concealing themselves in any situation. She and Grant had trained them to be resourceful and as far as she could tell no one had stepped over the company line by even a feather. In fact, during the past ten months they’d honed their skills, adapted, changed, while she’d remained at home. Now she needed to be sharper than they. It was possible that Shelby had lost the edge that had once made her the best tracker in the world.
But she intended to get it back.
THREE
“I must see her now.”
The strident voice from the hallway drew Shelby’s attention from the information she’d found. She glanced at the door, blinked several times to refocus her eyes, bleary now from studying her computer screen. But when the noise outside didn’t abate, she got up, walked over and pulled the heavy door open. So much for soundproofing.
“Joanie?” She looked for her secretary, saw her face-to-face with Russ Carson.
“I’m sorry, Shel. Apparently he doesn’t understand English very well.”
She knew Russ had taken Joanie’s words as an implied slam against his foreign birth because two spots of angry red colored Russ’s sharply chiseled cheekbones. If ever there were prototypical face and body features for a spy, Shelby had long ago decided that Russ had them. He didn’t possess the suave debonair style of a spy from a movie, but with his gaunt body and sharply honed features, he certainly looked like someone who’d come in from the cold and never warmed up. Of course, Russ dressed specifically to enhance the tough-guy effect with lean-fitting jeans, a black turtleneck and always a black leather jacket.
“Have we got a problem here, Russ?” Shelby modulated her voice to its mildest tone. With the company since its inception, Russ would no doubt recognize she barely controlled her temper, but right now Shelby didn’t care. She needed to make progress if Aimee was to be found and thanks to his interruption, she was getting nowhere fast.
Russ assessed her from between narrowed eyes. Finally he shook his head, his shoulders dropped their arrogant slant. But he didn’t back down.
“There is no problem here. But I must speak to you, Shelby. It is very important.” As usual when Russ was excited, his accent became more pronounced in spite of his attempts to cover it. Each word he spoke was precisely enunciated, but doing so slowed his sentences to a stilting structure that only emphasized his language difference.
“I’m busy right now, Russ. I’m sure Joanie told you that.” She turned, moved toward her office. “We can reminisce later.”
“Reminisce?” He shook his head. “I do not speak of the past. The present is what concerns me. You cannot find the little Aimee without help, Shelby. I am that help.”
Something in the timbre of his voice stopped her. She turned, scrutinized him.
“You? What do you know about Aimee’s disappearance?” she demanded, mentally running through his history with the company.
Russ Carson—Grant’s partner in past covert operations that neither had ever openly discussed—knew exactly how to get in and out of a building without being detected and his means did not employ disguise. Perhaps Natalie was right to suspect Finders’ staff. Russ certainly had the training and know-how to carry out an abduction. But it made no sense for him to take Aimee. He loved her, she’d seen that for herself a thousand times over.
Shelby told herself to get a grip. Suspecting every person who crossed her path wouldn’t help. Answers, not speculations, she reminded herself.
“What do you know about my daughter, Russ?”
“Probably less than you, right now.” He shrugged. “But I do know the police are not as efficient as we are in these matters.”
“By we, I’m assuming you mean Finders?”
“But of course.” He stepped closer, dropped his voice. “I have been doing this work for years. I know my record, and so do you. I get results.” The proud arrogance was back. “I’ve found a hundred items, located people no one else could find through sources no one else can use.” His voice dropped, his accent grew more pronounced. “I can find the little one, Shelby. Give me the chance. For Grant’s sake.”
She’d just spent four grueling