Almost Dead (Lizzy Gardner #5)(11)

Pam Middleton walked into Lizzy’s office downtown at exactly twelve noon. She wore dark slacks, a white sweater, and a strand of pearls. Her blonde hair, streaked with auburn, was pulled back with a clip. Her face looked pinched, her eyes tired. Her lips appeared as a thin red line.

After introductions were made, Lizzy gestured for Mrs. Middleton to have a seat in the empty chair next to Hayley.

“Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.”

“Not a problem. Hayley told me that you need us to locate someone for you. Why don’t you give us the specifics?”

The woman’s hands were clamped tightly on her lap. “Everything we talk about today will remain in the strictest of confidence?”

Lizzy and Hayley both agreed.

“Twenty-five years ago, at the age of sixteen, I had a baby girl. My boyfriend, Dillon, and I struggled with the decision to give our baby up for adoption, but in the end we felt we had no choice. We were young. My parents threatened to throw me out of the house. His parents were devastated. It was a horrible time. Neither of us had a job. There was no way we would be able to provide for our child.”

The woman took a steadying breath before continuing. “So the decision was made, and, because we thought it was only fair to the adoptive parents that we stay out of the picture, we never looked back.”

Mrs. Middleton toyed with her pearls before she found her voice again. “Seven years later, I married Dillon and we went on to have another child. A daughter.”

The woman’s eyes watered and her bottom lip quivered. She took a moment to gather her thoughts while Hayley and Lizzy exchanged looks, both waiting for the other to offer words of comfort and support. Instead, they merely sat there, unmoving and blank-faced.

“Recently,” Mrs. Middleton went on, “our sixteen-year-old daughter developed severe stomach cramps and was rushed to the hospital. Within twenty-four hours of bringing her to the hospital, we learned that she had a rare form of leukemia.”

“I’m sorry,” Lizzy said.

A tear dripped down the side of Pam Middleton’s cheek.

Lizzy offered her a tissue.

The woman dabbed at her eyes and then said, “After my daughter is given radiation and chemo, she’ll need a bone marrow transplant to replenish her red blood cells.”

“What happens if she doesn’t find a donor?” Hayley asked.

“She’ll die.”

“You need the daughter you gave up to save your younger daughter,” Hayley stated.

“Yes,” the woman said. “Can you help me find her?”





CHAPTER 9

As Kitally sat in the car, slumped down low, her eye on the house across the street, she couldn’t help but think that all three of them—Lizzy, Hayley, and herself—were in way over their heads.

They had never been busier.

They had so many workers’ compensation cases that Kitally and Hayley were forced to divide up the cases and go out on their own. There was no reason to have two people during long days of surveillance sitting in the car, but that did make for a tedious day.

Right now, Kitally was working on three different cases.

Howard Chalkor was one of them.

According to his claim, he couldn’t lift his right arm due to an on-the-job injury. The worst part of this particular case was that Kitally had thought she was done with Mr. Chalkor after she’d gotten some great shots of him and his son loading a truck with furniture. But the insurance company, picky sons of bitches, said the photos were blurry and unacceptable, which was ridiculous. She had a top-of-the-line camera and her photos were on par with Hayley’s and Lizzy’s.

At last, Mr. Chalkor came through the front door, looked over his shoulder, and shouted to someone inside the house. He then slammed the door shut and lit a cigarette as he made his way down the path leading to the sidewalk.

He didn’t get far before a woman came running after him. Towing a dog, a Samoyed, she handed him the leash. They exchanged heated words before she turned and marched back to the house.

Mr. Chalkor did not look happy. The frown lines in his face were deep, making him look much older than forty-two. With the smoke in his left hand and the leash in his right, he stalked off, heading away from where Kitally was parked.

Every time Chalkor yanked on the leash, Kitally gritted her teeth. Not only was he using the arm that was supposedly injured; he was hurting the dog. More than anything, she wanted to take that leash and wrap it around the man’s neck—show him what it felt like to be yanked and pulled.

As he rounded the bend, she thought about pursuing him by car but opted to shadow him on foot. She grabbed her camera, locked her car, and followed his trail.

Once Mr. Chalkor and his dog were back in view, she took a picture every time he yanked on the leash, which happened a lot, since he wouldn’t allow the poor dog to even smell a bush, much less take a pee.

She watched Chalkor join a group of people and their dogs in the dog park. It wasn’t long before he’d singled out the prettiest woman and struck up a conversation with her, forgetting all about the dog at his side. No wonder the woman back at the house wasn’t happy with him.

Figuring now was a good time to check the pictures she’d already taken, she found a bench and took a seat. The pictures were good, but yanking on a dog’s leash wasn’t exactly the same as lifting heavy furniture. She would have to call the insurance company and see what they thought. Maybe if she got video of Chalkor yanking on the leash instead of still pictures. She sighed. More than likely, she would have to come back again.