Page 21 of Long Gone

I wasn’t totally convinced as I got back in my car. I still felt jumpy, and the intrusive thought about my father hadn’t helped. Was that one of the reasons I hadn’t wanted to move in with him? He’d abandoned me once, even if he’d physically been present. Sure, he’d made an effort over the last couple of months—he’d asked me to come home and then helped get me a job at the law firm—but I had to admit I didn’t completely trust that he wanted to make things right between us.

I didn’t even consciously think about what I was doing when I grabbed the water bottle and took several sips. But thankfully the panic began to ease.

I shoved my thoughts about my father to the side. They wouldn’t help with this case and were nearly twenty years in the making. They weren’t going to be resolved in a matter of weeks.

As far as I saw it, I had one choice: I could let my fear send me running from this case, or I could suck it up like I had done since the day Andi was stolen right in front of me and keep going.

It wasn’t really a choice at all, so I grabbed my phone and looked up a name.

Brett Colter.

I needed to talk to him but the more I knew going into the interview the better…presuming he’d even take my call.

The top hit was a website listing for the Colter Group. I spent several minutes perusing the slick site filled with images of shiny construction projects and smiling faces and only found a vague description as to what the Colter Group actually did. There was some bogus mission statement about bridging communities and civic-minded businesses to build a better tomorrow.

So Brett Colter was a bullshitter.

Not that I was surprised. I suspected Hugo Burton had been a bullshitter too. He must’ve been a good one if he’d gotten people to keep investing in a project that had yet to turn a profit.

There was one way to find out, and that was talking to the guy. I called the number on the site, and a woman answered, “The Colter Group. How may I help you?”

“Hi,” I said in a friendly tone. “My name is Harper Adams. I’d like to set up an appointment to speak to Brett Colter about Hugo Burton.”

“Oh.” It was one word, but I heard the trepidation in her voice.

“Do you know if he’d have any availability tomorrow?” Then, hoping he’d be more open to taking a meeting if it didn’t sound ominous, I added, “From what I understand, Mr. Burton ran off and left Mr. Colter with a huge financial burden. I’d like to speak to him about that.”

“And how are you involved in this?” she asked hesitantly.

“I’m a private investigator working for Mrs. Burton. We’re working to have him declared dead.” I paused. “Which I’m sure would be to Mr. Colter’s advantage.”

I was operating on the assumption that Brett Colter was a savvy businessman, and would realize that he might be entitled to some financial compensation if Burton were declared dead.

“If you’ll please hold, I’ll check on Mr. Colter’s availability.”

“Of course.”

I knew she was putting me on hold to check with her boss, not that I blamed her. I’d do the same thing in her situation.

A minute later, she came back on the line. “Mr. Colter says he has some availability tomorrow at nine a.m. here at the office. Will that work for you?”

It worked better than she knew. I’d start my day with his interview and use it to point me where I should go next. “That works perfectly with my schedule.”

After she gave me the address, she said, “See you tomorrow.” I took her cheerfulness as a good sign. Colter hadn’t just agreed to meet with me. He was looking forward to it.

I hoped that meant he’d be chatty.

I decided to head home and do some research there. I had the copies of bank statements from Clarice and now that I was an official P.I., I had limited access to records that the average citizen didn’t. I planned on taking full advantage.

I got to work as soon as I returned to my apartment, surprised that my mother wasn’t waiting at the back door to complain about how all her friends had looked down on her because I had missed the historical society luncheon.

I couldn’t begin to fathom why she’d wanted me there so badly when she was so obviously embarrassed by me. The few times I’d brought it up, she’d dismissed me as being dramatic. Pot, meet kettle.

I wanted to look at the land Hugo had owned to find out who had taken the properties over after the foreclosures, but I didn’t have any identifying information to look them up, so I started on the bank statements. There had been multiple deposits of varying amounts in the days leading up to his disappearance. Then the night of the day he was last seen, there had been an online wire transfer to another account—presumably the offshore account Detective Jones had told me about. I had to admit it was pretty damning. The basketball game was at five, and the transfer was made at nine p.m.

If I went with the assumption that he’d been murdered and he’d made the wire transfer himself, then I had to wonder why he hadn’t gone to Anton’s game. Had he purposely missed it or had he been kidnapped, then forced to make the transfer before his murder? Or maybe someone had murdered Hugo and had access to his accounts to make the transfer into their own.

Why had Clarice lied about the transfer? She’d had the bank statements. Surely, she’d seen it. I wanted to ask her but decided to get more information first.

---