Finding Claire Fletcher by Lisa Regan Read Free Book Online Page A

“And you expect me to believe that?”
    “Look,” Connor said coolly, sitting up straight and giving Mitch his best imposing glare. “I don’t give a shit what you believe. I’m not here to sell anything. I’m here as a courtesy to the Fletchers, who wanted me to speak to you, and because I want to know what the fuck’s going on.”
    A slow, appreciative smile spread across Farrell’s face. He put his pen and notepad away and leaned toward Connor. “Well, all right,” he said.
    Connor did not let his hard exterior slacken. A moment passed between the two men. Then another. And another. Farrell smiled and Connor glared. Neither spoke, but in the air between them an intense and invisible flood of communication roared. This had happened to Connor before. Indeed, his mastery of this unspoken language between men was one of the things that made him a good detective—that is, when he wasn’t firing off his weapon indiscriminately.
    They were like two alpha wolves scenting each other warily, testing the ether for any sign of threat or weakness. Pushing each other, nipping collars, baring teeth, circling. Each one assessing the other’s strength and trying to draw out the other’s true intentions without expressing his own.
    Connor played the game well and got his way, as he usually did. The next words out of Farrell’s mouth were, “Do you want something to drink?”
    Connor relaxed and smiled. “God, yes,” he said.
    Both men laughed, dispelling the tension in the small room.
    “Come on then,” Farrell said.
    He led Connor into another room much the size of his office, although in slightly more disarray. It looked exactly like someone’s living room, although it was evident by all the surveillance equipment stacked along the far wall that this was not Farrell’s home. There was a mid-sized black leather couch and a small coffee table which faced a large television and VCR ensconced in a modest entertainment center. Behind the couch was a larger table with some files neatly stacked on its surface. Beside the table was a small refrigerator from which Farrell plucked two bottles of Corona.
    He motioned for Connor to sit. Connor sat on the edge of the couch and removed his jacket. Mitch popped the caps off the beer bottles while Connor studied a framed photograph in the center of the coffee table. It was a young woman, probably mid-twenties with long red hair, delicate features and a wide smile.
    “My daughter,” Farrell said, handing Connor a freshly opened beer. “Holly Louise. She’s on the east coast in medical school now. I can’t believe it. My little girl in medical school.”
    Connor smiled. “Is she why you took the Fletcher case as a favor?”
    Farrell frowned at the photo, his bushy gray eyebrows meeting above the bridge of his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “In part. Holly was only a couple years younger than Claire but I’d known the Fletchers—Mr. and Mrs.—for quite some time. It was terrible, you know?”
    The older man shivered but not from cold. “I can’t imagine what it’s like, losing a child and never knowing what happened. The department here did good work on the case, and I didn’t interfere. I told Jen and Rick to let them do their job. But after a year or so, the trail gets mighty cold and the police have lots of other crimes piling up. Cases with better leads and tangible evidence. You couldn’t blame them for backing off.”
    Connor sipped his Corona slowly, enjoying the taste. “You used to be on the payroll?” Connor asked.
    Farrell kicked one foot onto the coffee table and took a long swig from his bottle. “Yeah,” he answered. “But not here. I worked homicide in Atlanta for twenty years. Ten on Special Victims in Oakland after that. Then I moved to Crescent City. I met the Fletchers when I moved there.
    “Rick was a public relations guy for some local corporation and he and Jen came to all kinds of functions—banquets and benefits and the like. They were a