R Is for Ricochet

the near one ajar, and then returned to my seat.
    He pulled himself up against the pillows. "Thank you. I suppose she means well, but there are times when she takes too much on herself. To date, I haven't appointed her my guardian. As for Reba, what do you propose?"
    "I'm not really sure. I need to find her as soon as possible."
    "Is she in trouble?"
    "I'd say so. Shall I fill you in?"
    "It's best I don't know. Whatever it is, I trust you to take care of it and bill me afterwards."
    "I'll do what I can. Couple of government agencies are interested in talking to her about Beck's financial dealings. This is going to get sticky and my position's precarious as it is. When it comes to the feds, I don't want to end up on the wrong side of the fence. If I'm working for you, no privilege attaches to our relationship in any event, so hiring me won't serve as protection for either one of us."
    "I understand completely. I wouldn't ask you to compromise yourself in the eyes of the law. That said, I'd be grateful for any help you can give her."
    "Is her car still here?"
    He nodded. "It's parked in the garage, which is unlocked as far as I know. You're welcome to take a look."
    There was a tapping at the door and the handle turned. Lucinda rattled the knob impatiently, her voice muffled. "Nord, what's wrong? Are you in there?"
    He gestured toward the door. I crossed and unlocked it. Lucinda turned the knob abruptly and pushed her way in, almost banging me in the face. She stared at me, apparently assuming I'd locked the door on my own. "What's this about?"
    Nord strained to raise his voice. "I told her to lock it. I didn't want any further interruptions."
    Her body language shifted from suspicion to injury. "You might have mentioned it. If you and Miss Millhone have private business to discuss, I wouldn't dream of interfering."
    "Thank you, Lucinda. We appreciate that."
    "Perhaps I've overstepped my bounds." Her tone was frosty, the content designed to generate apologies or reassurances.
    Nord offered neither. He lifted a hand, almost a gesture of dismissal. "She'd like to see Reba's room."
    "What for?"
    Nord turned to me. "Down the hall to your right -"
    Lucinda cut in. "I'll be happy to show her. We don't want her wandering around on her own."
    I glanced at Nord. "I'll get back to you," I said.
    I followed Lucinda down the hall, noting her stiff posture and her refusal to look at me. When we reached Reba's room, she opened the door and then stood in my path forcing me to squeeze by her. Her eyes trailed after me. "I hope you're satisfied. You think you're so helpful, but you're killing him," she said.
    I locked eyes with her, but she was far more practiced than I at delivering the withering glance. I waited. Her smile was set, and I knew she was the sort who'd find ways to get even. Lucinda, the bitch indeed. She stepped into the hall. I shut the door and locked it, knowing she'd get the point.
    I turned and leaned against the door, making a visual survey, taking in the whole of the room before starting my search. The bed was made, a few personal mementos neatly arranged on the bedside table: a framed photo of her father, a book, a scratch pad, and a pen. No clutter. No clothing on the floor. Nothing under the bed. A phone, but no personal address book. I went through the desk drawers, uncovering items that must have been there for years: school papers, exam books, unopened boxes of stationery, which were probably gifts – certainly not her taste, unless she favored kitty-cat cards with cute sayings on the front. No personal correspondence. Dresser drawers were neat.
    I checked the closet, where several empty hangers suggested the number of garments missing – six by my count. Among the articles she'd left behind were a navy blue blazer and a leather bomber jacket, askew on its hanger. I had no way of knowing what she'd packed. I wasn't even sure the size or the number of suitcases she owned. I sorted through idly, thinking back to the clothes I'd seen her in. I didn't spot her boots or either of the sweaters I remembered – the one red cotton, the other dark blue with a cowl neck. She'd worn both within the first few days of being home, which meant they might well be her favorites, garments she'd want with her on the road.
    I went into the bathroom, which was close to barren: tawny marble floor tile and countertop, spotless mirrors, and the smell of soap. The medicine cabinet had been emptied of items. No deodorant, cologne,