Sedona Law 5 by Dave Daren (romantic novels in english .TXT) 📕

“I don’t know if we have time for appointments,” I said. “We might just have to do this ambush style.”

“Ugh,” Vicki groaned. “I do not look forward to being ‘that’ person.”

“I guess it’s fitting,” I chuckled, “considering Jerry lived that way.”

“So, where should we start?” Vicki asked.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s split it up between all of us. Let’s take one category, and see if we can track these people down.”

“I’ll take news casualties,” Vicki replied.

“Are you sure?” I asked and cocked my eyebrow at her. “Those guys might be aggressive.”

“I’m a sweet little Asian woman,” she laughed. “You think a bunch of good ol’ boys who work construction are going to give me any lip?”

I snorted. “You’re not that sweet.”

“I know that,” she said and flipped her hair. “But I’m a damn good actress.”

“Geez,” I muttered. “I was afraid women secretly think that way.”

“We do,” AJ and Vicki said in unison.

“Alright,” I shook my head, “I’ll take personal. I’ll go wrangle with the ex-wife and whatnot. AJ, you okay with contacting Jerry’s business enemies?”

“I can do that,” she agreed with a nod.

“Good,” I said. “Then let’s get on the phone.”

The three of us pulled out our phones and our newly loaded contacts and started making calls. As it turns out, locating Clare Clearmont wasn’t hard at all. She picked up on the first ring.

“Hello?” she answered.

“I’m looking for Clare Clearmont,” I said.

“Speaking,” she replied.

“Hi, Clare,” I greeted amicably. “My name is Henry Irving, I’m an attorney with Sedona Legal. We are working with SPD on the investigation regarding Jerry Steele.”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, and her voice was soft and low at the mention of his name.

“I would love to meet with you,” I said, “if there’s anything you might know that might help us.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “What do you want to know?”

“Would you be available to meet with me today?” I asked.

“Today?” she repeated dubiously.

“I know it’s short notice,” I said, “but we’re trying to kick up dirt while the trail’s still hot. I know you and your son are probably really looking for some answers, and we want to get those to you as soon as we can.”

“Of course, of course,” she said. “If you would like, you can come to the house. I’ll be home this afternoon.”

“Perfect,” I replied.

She gave me the address and we set a time.

“Thank you, Clare,” I said. “I’ll see you later on today.”

We said our goodbyes and ended the call. Then I got online and started researching her. Her real name couldn’t possibly be Clare Clearmont. Clare meant “clear” in French, and “mont” meant “mountain.” So, her name was “clear clear mountain?” No one named their kid that. It had to be a fake name. This was red flag number one.

According to her Facebook profile, she worked for the hospital as a music therapist, where she played guitar and sang. I watched a video of her singing to a group of Down Syndrome patients. It was a simple guitar song about the steps to brushing teeth. Honestly, it was delightful.

Clare also belonged to a handful of music therapist associations and she even wrote an article for a music therapist’s blog. I read the blog post, a decently written piece about how learning to play an instrument can help a child through their parents’ divorce.

Based on her other Facebook information, her child was a ten year old named Thad, who did sketches and entered in art competitions. Of course he would be artistic. His mother was a musician, and his father was a filmmaker.

I spent the rest of the morning preparing questions for this woman. Based on what I saw, and the short phone conversation I had with her, I doubted she could be the killer. She seemed more like a nice lady who got screwed over by Jerry Steele.

I met Clare later that afternoon at her home. She lived in a modest one story wooden brown house, surrounded by a chain link fence. I parked and entered through the gate toward what looked like it had once been an ample flower garden. Now, they just looked like brown weeds. A child’s blue bike lay in the grass, and an older model silver Land Rover sat in the driveway. I took the concrete steps up to a wooden front door, and Clare answered promptly.

“Hi,” I said with an easy smile, “Henry Irving.”

“I’m Clare,” she replied, “come in.”

I recognized her instantly from her Facebook photos. In her mid-thirties, she was a tall, slender blonde woman in maroon floral pattern nursing scrubs. She had her hair piled on top of her head in a quick fix, and her manner was harried and stressed.

“Sorry about the mess,” she apologized as her eyes roved over her home.

The living room was dimly lit, with brown leather couches and clutter strewn everywhere. I could see why a marriage between her and Jerry might be a very practical problem.

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked as she motioned for me to come into the kitchen.

“Coffee would be great,” I answered.

I looked around the room, and noticed photos on the fireplace mantle. Clare and Jerry posed with Thad, who held a painting a first place ribbon. But the subtle body language cues in the photo spoke volumes. Clare on one side, Thad in the middle, and Jerry on the other, with a large space in between.

She served me a steaming mug, and we both sat at the table.

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

“Oh, you know,” she said and didn’t finish her sentence. She just stared into her mug.

“How long had you and Jerry been divorced?” I inquired.

The question was too personal in any other context, and I felt invasive