Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(36)

Chapter Thirteen



Barry takes two full days to get back to her. If it were anyone else, the turnaround time would have been impressive. But pulling off the impossible is one of Barry’s best traits. So Holly has to wonder, when his ID shows up on her phone, precisely how hard he’s been looking.

“I may have somebody who can help,” he says without preamble. “I’ve spent the last couple of days making calls and reaching out to my contacts. They all push the same guy. But I don’t know him personally, so I can’t recommend him.”

“That’s okay.” She hates how detached he sounds. “Thanks for doing it.”

“He’s an ex-soldier who served in Afghanistan. He got shot up, came home, signed on with the police—the bobbies, as you people so quaintly say.”

“I don’t want to use the police,” Holly protests. Police mean public records, and public records mean press.

“You don’t have to. The guy had some conflicts and left the force. I’m not clear on whether it was voluntary or not, but my gut says no. He set up shop a year or so ago on his own and seems to be doing well. My contacts say he’s the best private detective around. He’s not cheap, and he’s not pleasant, but he gets results.”

“I don’t care about his personality,” Holly says. “I’m not planning on marrying him.”

“Another thing.” Barry pauses, and she can hear him deciding how much to say. “When he was in Afghanistan? He came home with some issues. My sources didn’t say what. But the word on the street is he’s a little . . . damaged.”

Holly’s taken the conversation in Jane’s office for privacy. There’s a picture of Holly and Jack on the desk, a photo from last Christmas. They’re standing in front of the Rockefeller tree, arms around each other, laughing. To anyone watching them that day, they must have looked vibrantly healthy and normal. Holly has idly picked up the frame while Barry’s been talking. Now she sets it down.

“Aren’t we all,” she says.

Barry’s silent on the other end of the phone.

“You sure you want to do this?” he says at last.

“I am.”

“Then let me call this guy first for you,” he says. “At least let me do that. If he checks out, I’ll give him your number. If not, I’ll keep looking.”

Holly thinks about it. A prescreening isn’t a bad idea, especially since it’s Barry, whose bullshit meter is off the charts—another one of his special talents.

“All right,” she says. “And thank you. It means a lot.”

“How’s Jack doing?”

“He’s fine,” she lies. “Happy to be avoiding school, actually.”

“Driving all the young English girls crazy?”

“The old ones too—he and his grandmother almost came to blows last night,” she jokes, relieved at how natural he sounds. Barry’s never met her mother, but he’s heard the stories.

They spend a few more moments on the phone, running over the business. She’s barely had time to think about the company, and getting up to speed on the latest product trials and consumer-feedback tests is a good distraction. With help finally in sight and Barry not as standoffish as she’d feared, she’s slightly less anxious by the time they hang up. She spends the next few hours sending and answering emails and reviewing lab reports before going downstairs.

Jane has disappeared, but Nan, the housekeeper, is in the kitchen. She’s younger than Holly expected—she looks as if she’s in her early twenties—and she moves around the kitchen with an easy familiarity that comes from working under Jane’s demanding eye for the past six months. Jack is sitting at the counter next to her, scarfing down an omelet. “Hey, Mom, guess what? Nan’s brother Ed plays lax too. He’s going to take me the next time they practice.”

“Fabulous,” Holly enthuses, when she means the opposite. She’s becoming more and more like her mother.

“Do you think we could have him over? Please? He’s out of school today,” Jack says. “And I’ve already done most of my assignments for this week.”

Holly looks at Nan, who is biting her lip. She gives Holly a subtle shake of her head.

“I don’t know,” Holly hedges. “Your grandmother might have something planned.” Jack’s protesting as her mobile goes off. She glances down at it. Barry. She holds up a hand. “Hold on a sec. I have to take this.”

But Jack looks so pleadingly at her that she relents. “Ask your grandmother,” she says, then steps out of the kitchen.

“That was fast.”

“So I talked to him,” Barry says. “And I don’t like him much, but I think he’s on the level. But there’s one thing.”

“Yes?”

“At first, he flat-out refused to help you. Said he wasn’t interested, that it wasn’t the kind of thing he did. But I kept talking. I told him who you are and what you do, and suddenly he became extremely enthusiastic. In fact, he couldn’t wait to speak with you. Any idea why?”

“What’s his name?” Holly asks. There’s always the possibility that she knows him, that he’s the brother of a friend or a relative.

“Christopher Cooke.”