Finding Claire Fletcher by Lisa Regan Read Free Book Online

would be responsible. I was already responsible for so many lives that I could not bear another murder on my conscience. I had to find out how much my abductor and his pet knew, if they were on to Connor. I dressed hastily in jeans and a sweatshirt and stomped across the road to the little house.

CHAPTER TEN
     
    Mitch Farrell’s office was located in a small pocket of an old strip mall whose former businesses had moved onto more highly trafficked areas of the city. The square block of storefronts were dilapidated, most of the windows yawning empty, the signage above them leaving ghostlike letters of businesses past. All that was left was Farrell’s office and a Laundromat, which was unoccupied at the moment.
    The only sign that Farrell did business among the empty shops was simple gold lettering on the front door bearing his name and title. There was a tiny waiting room with a few scruffy chairs and a battered table bearing some very out-of-date magazines. There was no receptionist, just a small hallway to Connor’s right.
    “Hello?” he called. “Mr. Farrell?”
    “You must be the detective.” Farrell’s voice arrived a split second before he did.
    The man was in his sixties with salt-and-pepper hair and worry lines surrounding his dark brown eyes. He was tall, dressed casually, but with the bearing of someone who’d spent time in the military.
    “Connor Parks.”
    Farrell eyed him from top to bottom. “The Fletchers called me. Come into my office.”
    Connor followed the man down the hallway and took a seat in the chair opposite Farrell’s desk.
    Farrell’s office was the polar opposite of Captain Riehl’s. It was neatly kept and smelled like Pine-Sol. There were two large filing cabinets and a large oak bookcase lined with books. Not a single scrap of paper littered any surface in the room. The walls were decorated with framed photos, various certificates and Farrell’s private investigator license. Farrell’s desk boasted only a phone, computer, and ink blotter. The office was simple and well organized.
    Farrell arranged himself behind the desk and folded his hands, regarding Connor with an air of skepticism. “So you had an encounter with a woman claiming to be Claire Fletcher.”
    “I saw Claire Fletcher,” Connor corrected.
    Farrell sighed, pulled a notepad and pen from one of his desk drawers and said, “Tell me what happened.”
    Connor recounted the salient points of his encounter with Claire, leaving out the intimate hours they’d shared in his bed. Farrell did not look at Connor while he spoke. He kept his eyes on the notepad. His pen moved slowly, as if he were doodling while Connor talked, wholly disinterested in the story.
    “She left me a note with the address 1201 Archer Street on it. So I went to see her but—well you know the rest,” Connor concluded.
    At this, Farrell’s eyes rose to meet Connor’s. “A note?”
    Connor shook his head. “No. Not exactly. Just a piece of paper with her name and the address on it.”
    “Do you have it with you?” Farrell asked.
    Irritated, Connor replied he did not, although the piece of paper in question rested in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He just didn’t want Farrell to have it, although he wasn’t sure why.
    Farrell nodded indifferently. “Did you sleep with her?”
    “What?” Connor said, more loudly than he’d intended. He felt an uncharacteristic flush rise from his collar to his forehead.
    Farrell eyed him. “Did you have sexual intercourse with this woman?” he asked.
    Connor shook his head. “No.”
    Farrell seemed genuinely surprised. “You didn’t?”
    “No,” Connor repeated.
    “You meet a woman in a bar. She hits on you. You chase her outside, take her home, ingest large quantities of scotch, and the two of you don’t have sex?”
    Connor shrugged, affecting the same indifference Farrell had displayed up to then. “No, we didn’t have sex.”
    Farrell stared at him for a long time. Finally, he said,