Alias

“So give me your best theory.”

“Porche Fairchild committed millions to a movie deal with Maurice. I heard him talking to her on the phone a few times. And she’s been missing since October, three years ago.”

“Missing?”

Darcy told her about the entertainment news report. “They say she’s accounted for, but no one has seen her. I left Maurice in October, Meg. And Maurice made the deal with her in October and she vanished right around the same time.”

“You think he killed this woman, don’t you?”

“He had it in him. If I can prove Maurice had something to do with Porche’s disappearance, he’ll go to jail and Charlie and I will be free.”

Megan wasn’t convinced. “That’s a really big if, Darcy.”

“A huge one, I know. It’s a lot to prove.” Short of going to Europe to find the woman, which she couldn’t afford to do, Darcy had to prove the connection between Maurice and Fairchild that night, and well, sadly, hunt on the premise that Fairchild was dead.

“I need to get back to work.”

“Yeah, and you need to stop drinking so much caffeine, too.”

Darcy laughed softly as they left the room, but she had a hard time concentrating on anything but those freezer bags of evidence to a crime Maurice might have committed.

That’s as weak as it got, she thought, but it was a start. She had to move quickly. She couldn’t say why, but she had the distinct feeling that time was about to run out.

Chapter 4

S unday was a day of rest for most people, but Darcy was anxious to start searching.

Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she tracked Maurice’s recent activities easily, bringing up pictures of him coupled with the starlets in his films. She didn’t doubt for a second that he’d cheated on her back when they’d been together. He had his hands up a lot of skirts and in too many pockets. It was one of the reasons she couldn’t get help. Too many people owed Maurice and he owed just as many. Asking the wrong person would have alerted Maurice to her plans.

This morning, she’d already investigated the pages she’d copied from Maurice’s date book, but there wasn’t anyone listed who wasn’t still alive and visible. She dug deeper, Web Detective helping her along. Flipping through the archived pictures of Variety, she saw one with Maurice’s chauffeur in the background. He’d never gone anywhere without the driver—the man was his paid muscle, content to stand by the car and wait till needed. Darcy hadn’t paid much attention to him because Maurice never allowed him to speak to her directly. She wondered how loyal he really was to Maurice and made a note to find out somehow.

She almost considered calling Jack for help, but it was still early. He’d been teaching her how to investigate so she was better prepared to rescue women and bring them safely into the underground network. First rule of investigative work, he’d taught her, was follow the money trail and document it on paper. And Maurice had a path a mile wide behind him.

She worked the Internet, looking through the new movie’s Web site, the past film sites; pulling up his public financial status, she almost laughed. Maurice was rich as sin, but the report showed that he was just comfortable. Oh, yeah, pay for a four-million-dollar estate in Beverly Hills on that, and bring the IRS in full force. It proved to her that Maurice was clever, and devious. Capable of anything.

And just why did I marry this man? The same answer came. He was handsome, rich, a powerful movie producer, and while he could have had any woman, he’d chosen her.

He’d had his reasons, though she hadn’t seen it then. He thought he could mold and control her and, in a way, he had. He’d given polish and sophistication to a girl whose father was just a scribbled name on a birth certificate and whose mother was a drunk. Since Maurice still kept her mother loaded and in luxury, Darcy didn’t consider calling her. She’d tell Maurice just to keep those cushy surroundings.

And why not?

Life on Maurice’s estate was a far cry from Darcy’s youth of living in cheap apartments and being evicted when her mother lost jobs because of her drinking. Delores had constantly mourned the loss of her beauty, spending more time with “I remember when” than working to improve herself or at least get into a rehab center. Delores had been married three times and thought she needed a man to be whole. Darcy knew otherwise. Sometimes, when it was really bad, she’d lashed out at Darcy, blaming her birth for all her troubles. It was painful to hear, and the booze was doing the talking, she knew. But for a long time, she’d believed it.

She pushed herself to make good grades, as if that would win her mother’s love and make her stop drinking. Of course, it hadn’t. When she was invited to attend Athena Academy, all expenses paid by the school, she’d thought she’d been granted asylum in a foreign country. Athena made her see her own potential. Maurice had slowly taken that away.

God I was a sap, she thought, disgusted, and she focused on finding information on Fairchild.

An hour later she learned something surprising.

Porche Fairchild was not who she seemed. Though the name said money and affluence, Porche’s real name was Patty Fogerty. She’d changed it legally just before receiving her MBA and stepping into the business world. Like Darcy, she’d gone to college on scholarships and had worked a job, as well, interning with William Morris Agency. From the records of investments, Porche had done some creative financing, and while Darcy couldn’t see anything wrong in the numbers, it made her wonder how she’d become so rich so fast and why she’d then vanished. Was she into something illegal, something that had forced her to skip out before she was caught?

There wasn’t a single article or mention of Porche in any magazine or newspaper in three years, and the two she did find were about her sudden absence from the financial world. An undisclosed spokesman’s statement said that Ms. Fairchild was on sabbatical.

Bunk. It was sad that the absence of a bright young woman with a great mind would go unnoticed for so long. Porche didn’t have any family. Darcy wondered if there’d been anyone she could depend on, someone who might have cared enough to file a missing person’s report.

The image hit a little close and Darcy grew more determined to find out what happened to the woman.

The only other mention was an old piece in Variety and a production notice. So if Fairchild’s finance business was closed, what had happened to her accounts, her money? Her home? Checking her last known address brought up a real-estate listing. The house had been sold three years ago and was up for sale again.

Nice digs, Darcy thought, noting the Bel Air address. She called the real-estate agent but the woman wasn’t forthcoming on the circumstances, which raised her suspicions. Darcy made another call to Porche’s former office number and got a deli somewhere in Fremont, CA. She found an old staff listing and called Fairchild’s assistant, Marianna Vasquez, but the woman worked for a bank and was away on business. She made a note to call her later.

She struck gold when she surfed free credit reports and learned Porche’s last open personal transaction was two nights before Maurice had come home hugging his briefcase.

While film and movie finances weren’t public record, Darcy went out on a limb and tried to access the personal accounts she’d shared with Maurice.

Maurice had changed the pass code, but after a few tries, she found that it was only by two digits. Idiot. She hit the key and the screen blinked to life. Pages and pages of account history scrolled past.

“Well, well, look at that money trail, Maury.”

Darcy smiled, typing in the dates to narrow the field. She kept bringing the search down tighter and tighter, and her eyes blurred from reading so many numbers.

Maurice had been a wealthy man when she married him, and she’d had unlimited funds and all the perks that went with them. Now, Maurice could afford three wives and she wondered when enough was enough. Twenty million? Thirty? Of his last three movies before Dead Game, Maurice had coproduced only the last two. Apparently the studios had lost enough confidence that he’d had to go to Fairchild for the third, Dead Game. Maurice would have had to convince her to finance the film.

Darcy’s eyebrows knitted and she sat back, remembering he’d been having trouble getting funds because, while the script was good, the star, Ben Collier, hadn’t had much success. Thirty-five million in production was a lot to ride on maybe.

She glanced at her freezer. Megan had given the bags to her last night and Darcy was so tired and busy with Charlie that she’d just thrown them in there. She knew she needed more than burned clothes to back up her theory. She had to be extremely careful. Her life and her son’s depended on it.

Darcy saved the file and printed the documents, then left her small home office to wake Charlie. She couldn’t do much else from Nevada. Though she didn’t want to be in the same state as Maurice, she had to do some firsthand snooping. She needed some special equipment, she thought, kissing her son awake.

And she knew just who to call.

Darcy threw open the door and smiled. Jack blinked as if stunned.

“What?”

“Been a while since I’ve seen you smile like that, I guess. It looks good on you.”

His gaze flowed over her body. In jeans and a strapless red top, she must look pretty silly, considering it was cold outside.

“Thanks for coming, Jack.” She pushed open the screen door. “Come in.”

Removing his hat, he stepped inside. “You going to tell me what you need all this camera equipment for?” He offered her a black duffel bag.

“No, not really. Does it matter?” Darcy really didn’t know if she was going to need it, but she wanted to be prepared.

“Just don’t implicate me in anything illegal.”

She rolled her eyes, taking the bag. “And here I thought you were the adventurous type.” She walked down the hall to the kitchen, inclining her head for him to follow. She could feel his gaze on her, as if it were rubbing over her skin. It made her insides tighten and she busied herself with getting him some coffee.